Heart of the Trainer: Champion
by MightyDesoto
Summary: An unexpected gift from a friend thrusts one trainer head first into the bloody circuit of greed, gambling, and illegal pokemon fights. Mistaken for another, he needs to become the star of the show and deliver a knockout performance if he wants to survive. The only problem is . . . he's the worst trainer in the League. (Sequel to Heart of the Trainer: Ranger. Original Character)
1. Homecoming Arc: 1

**Heart of the Trainer: Champion**

 **Homecoming** **:** **1**

Cork City Dojo: A place of concentration, control, and the obliteration of one's dignity.

The linoone hit the matt first. His trainer followed. Both were similar in nature: long, lean, and currently at the sore end of another invaluable life lesson.

"Get up," the teacher commanded. "The match isn't over yet. That is, unless you've already lost your fighting spirit?"

The linoone lifted from the ground with a grunt. He wobbled once, maybe twice, before his movements smoothed out. The same couldn't be said for his disheveled fur. With half of a squint, he looked over at his trainer next to him on the floor. The young man met the glance with a shift of his head just as labored as the pokemon's. Sweat glistened across his brow. It sparkled like the corner of his smile.

"What'd say, Charles?" he asked. "Are we giving up?"

Charles, the linoone, slunk back into fighting position in front of him. The young man chuckled. "Good because that's what I was thinking."

Pokemon trainer, John Hawkins, stood with a wince against the hard ache growing in his ribs. The latest _counter_ that threw him headlong across the dojo didn't land as nicely as the one before it. He brushed off his gi with a chuckle.

"Don't wait for me if you're tired, Sensei," John explained. "You'll be an old man by the time this spirit of mine runs out."

On the other side of the mat, Marcus Hailbringer, Cork City Gym Leader and Dojo Master, picked up the young man's laughter. Each bellow as hearty and rough as his training regime. "Now that sounds like a student a'mine!" he shouted. His silver hair and matching goatee disagreed with the well sculpted body beneath. Both of which, John learned never to underestimate. "Another round then!" Marcus looked to the side. "Porthos!" he called.

A Hariyama walked into the center of the mat between Marcus and John. He turned to the long lean pair with a clap of his hands that pulled apart into the next stance, one capable of KO'ing an entire party in seconds, or less, in John's case. Marcus mirrored his pokemon from behind. Charles took up the invitation. He steadied his head, adjusted a paw, and fell into position.

"Good! Good technique, Charles," Marcus called. "Still as a statue without stiffness. Now, if only ur' trainer could do the same."

"Just staying on my toes, Sensei," John replied as he swayed into position beside the linoone. It took longer for his lanky limbs to come together.

"Float like a butterfree, sting like a beedrill," Marcus quoted. "It'd suit you if you spent more time meditating on that technique and less time yakkin' ur jaw. Maybe then, you'd learn a thing or two."

"Twenty minutes of meditation for every mistake in this round, you got it," John answered.

Marcus laughed again and pulled the stoop out of his shoulders. "That's more like it! Come, show Sensei what you've learned!"

Porthos slapped a _force palm_ into his hand. A blue glow lined his glove. John raised his arms and his gi slipped away from his wrists. The sound quieted the dojo. It broke against the heavy step of the arm thrust pokemon, subsequent rustle, and 6'2 210 lbs. _thud_ followed by the squeak of a much lighter bounce as Charles and his trainer hit the mat again . . . and again, and again. Was this what it was like to live the life of a 1000 piece puzzle? John lay sprawled on his back, listening to the sound of the broken accordion that had replaced his lungs. He kept his eyes closed to keep the sweat from his eyes. Although, he wouldn't have been able to open them anyway.

Cork City Dojo taught its students many life lessons, but there was one that need not be spoken and every student understood the moment they stepped onto the mat:

Marcus Hailbringer could not be beaten by mortal men.

The gym leader patted his hariyama on the shoulder with a thick grin and walked across the matt towards John. There was a lean to his gait from the first of several matches that started the end of his professional MMA career but Marcus refused to let it mature into a limp. The day he resorted to a Cane would be the day he took the reaper's scythe for himself. John recognized the approaching step. A desperate man would've tried to capitalize on the old injury. John didn't have the strength nor naivety for one last grasp at victory. Marcus looked down at his student.

"Two years," he said. "Two years of training at my dojo and what do you have to show for it? Bad form, bruises, and a few broken bones?" The gym leader shook his head. "Never in my entire life did I think it was possible for a man to have weaker muscles than a hoppip but you have proven me wrong."

John winked open an eye and glanced over at Charles. The linoone lay nearby. His eyes were closed and he panted heavily, but there wasn't a single trace of regret along his snout. Marcus looked up with a wave of his hand at the ghosts of their previous matches.

"Your presentation is terrible," he continued. "You always want to play patty cake with your opponent when you need to lay them flat on their ass. You're pokemon wouldn't be so bad if they had a decent trainer leading the way. You have absolutely no talent as a pokemon trainer. None what so ever."

John let a smile run across his lips and rolled over to stand up.

"I try to live a humble life, Sensei," he grimaced.

Marcus sighed, looked down, and extended a hand. John looked at the sandpaper palm, taped fingers that never pointed straight, and calloused tips.

One day, he hoped his hands would look the same.

John accepted the offer. He hoisted himself up using the gym leader as a counter weight. Now, it was Marcus' turn to grimace. The young man stood several inches above him at full height. Despite having the appearance of a bird, his bones were lead from all of the injuries he received. Break after break strengthened the marrow to sandbag durability. Luckily for Marcus, John kept moving with the momentum. With the trainer's back turned, Marcus put a hand to his lower back with a scrunch of his nose. He watched in envy as John scooped up Charles in his arms. The pokeball and belt that went with the pokemon lay along the lattice wall where the other students were finishing cleaning up their mats. The only belts allowed in the Main House of the dojo were white, yellow, blue, purple, and black. Marcus rubbed his back again.

John's gi was white from head to toe.

Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Enough dust and dirt filled the rivets of material to turn John's gi an off white. More than one broken nose left feint blood drops along his collar, too persistent for even the rough hands of a hariyama to wash out. Scars of torn fabric thickened many seams and frayed edges rubbed many a spot smooth.

White indeed.

Porthos walked up behind Marcus. He set a squared orange glove at the eve of his back. One gentle but determined touch set it back in place. Marcus grunted and rubbed his back one more time before he tossed a glance at the pokemon graying as much as he. Porthos stood side by side with him but did his trainer the curtesy of keeping his gaze forward. A smile pinched into the corner of his eyes, softening the line of the blue circlet around the crown of his head. He clasped his hands contently in front of his belly. John still had most of his back turned to them. He continued to stroke Charles until the pokemon's eyes fluttered open again. Even with more than half of his body draped over John's arm, not a paw twitched in discomfort. Marcus glanced at Porthos again. This time, their gazes met with a nod.

"That's enough for today," Marcus announced. "I don't want you falling over at Commencement tomorrow. It's hard to bestow a badge on a pupil when they're passed out on the floor."

"Well, it is a very comfortable floor," John began but the words quickly faded the wider his eyes became. "Wait, what did you-? I- tomorrow, me?"

"We must've hit you harder than I thought," Marcus laughed. "Normally, you're quicker on the take than that."

"But-b-,"

"Spit it out, boy! You know what I think about mumbling."

The chuckle sharply turned into a growl of warning. When Sensei "thought" about anything, it often manifest itself into a grueling extension of the day's training. John's legs trembled at the thought of another ten laps around the compound. If that was the case, then Marcus sure did a whole lot of thinking. God forbid the gym leader should actually form an opinion on something. John glanced to the side at the wooden dummy discarded in the corner. Three pegs had snapped off and a split down the center cut the body in two. He had a pretty good idea.

Dojo life lesson #52: Speak without hesitation but always with respect. Right now, it wasn't a teaching but a safety mechanism.

"Sensei," John began. He stood tall despite the living plush in his arms. Marcus turned a lazy eye at him with the same formality.

"Speak," he answered.

"Do you mean to honor me with a badge?"

"I do."

"The Cork City Gym Badge?"

"Yes."

"Is that a joke?"

Marcus slowly crossed his hands over his chest. He didn't realize it but a vein rose to the surface through the wrinkles of his forehead.

"And what makes you think that any part of the Mountainside Badge is a joke?" he rumbled.

John didn't dare lower his chin, not when a sharp uppercut was waiting to push it back up again.

"It's not the badge, Sensei," John continued.

"But the student?" Marcus replied as he lowered his arms. "Not only is my dojo now a joke, but so is the judgment of my students?"

John made sure not to blink. "Only when it comes to one," he said.

Marcus snorted and stomped a leg into a crouch. He slapped his chest and shouted something in a foreign language, something he must have picked up from the oceanic islands where he won a title trophy along with the respect of the entire tribal people.

"You believe me to have made a mistake?" Marcus yelled.

A bead of sweat ran down John's temple.

"Lesson #47: Mistakes mark even the best of us," John quoted.

Marcus smiled. He then slapped both forearms with the weight of a blacksmith's hammer, leaving the muscles red and tight. One slight of footwork and he lowered into position.

"Come then," he shouted. "And show me mine!"

The challenge stopped several other students mid clean up. They glanced between the two contenders on the center mat. There was no mystery as to the outcome, just the reason for its birth. John knew exactly why. He had insulted his dojo and his Sensei in a single act of ill confidence. Marcus was older, an old man to most, and yet he still out weighted him by almost a full class. For anyone who knew anything about martial arts, this was the most dangerous phase; where experience triumphed youth every time.

Going head to head with Sensei wasn't wise but John never thought himself a smart person. He carefully placed Charles on the edge of the mat. This battle didn't require pokemon. It was a challenge for him and him alone. John calmly returned to the center of the mat, passing Porthos, the hariyama, knowing full well that the master beyond it was far more intimidating. He never meant any insult. In fact, he loved this dojo and respected the Cork City gym badge for what it was: an emblem of simple strength, fortitude, and perseverance. He spent two years of his life training under its leader, watching his sensei demolish challenge after challenge. He could count the number of trainers with a Cork City gym badge on his hands.

It was because of that very fact that he couldn't let Sensei taint that reputation. John refused to let their history together lower the bar when it came to the Mountainside Badge just so he could get one. This duel would show Sensei that he was not worthy of such an honor. He would hold nothing back, pour everything he had into it, and prove that even the great Cork City Gym Leader didn't play favorites.

John bent in the same style as his sensei. He was ready.

Porthos centered himself between them on the outside of the mat. Charles slunk over beside him. This fight was not his but he would witness what was to come. It was the least he could do for his trainer. The hariyama raised his arms. His hands held back the two forces building on either side, and with a single clap, the match began. To the dojo's surprise, neither party moved. One fleck of dust could have fallen and tipped the scales. John kept his balance on its edge. Sensei was never one to play defense, especially when insulted. His moves often struck so quickly that Porthos' clap was often the thunderclap that followed the lightning fist that had already struck. But this wasn't Sensei's fight to initiate. It was John's.

And he knew it.

Did he run? Admit defeat? He insulted himself just thinking about it. John slid forward and advanced. One sharp thrust and a twist later, and Marcus had the trainer's arms locked in his own. They stood face to face. A firm frown sliced off half of Sensei's gaze. John bore into it with a furrow of his own brow.

"You can't give me a badge, Sensei. I'm a terrible student," John explained. The deep droves of physical combat were a Cork City students' only confessional. "I've never won a single round against you, not even against your pokemon."

Marcus unhooked their arms in a wide sweep that came full circle into a double palm chest shove. Sensei was being merciful. John danced backward. His toes firmly planted in the matt. Without dropping his heels, the trainer rocketed forward again. Sheer off to the left of Marcus' fist to avoid the impact. Roll under his counter and into the soft skin of the arm to strike. John advanced. Marcus' iron claw grip wrenched the attack down and under. John fell to his knees with his arm bent behind his back.

"I can never keep up in physical training," John panted with a turn of his cheek to the side. "I've spent more nights in the recovery ward than on the matt."

Marcus yanked John's arm but the young trainer spun with the twist and popped up to his feet. They flew out from underneath him. John's back hit the mat and he flipped into an over the shoulder roll with a jab ready in his palm. Marcus took the handshake and threw it over his shoulder. John hit the mat again. A hand dove for his loose collar. He spun up and around into Marcus' legs, bringing him down to the floor with him. They grappled into a chokehold, student gaining the advantage with arm length.

"I can't meditate for more than twenty minutes at a time without breaking concentration," John persisted. Marcus broke the hold faster than a plastic straw tower. John didn't get more than a gasp before he found himself at the bottom of the exact same technique broken just seconds before. This time, Marcus displayed proper technique.

"You said so yourself," John squeaked. "I have no talent whatsoever."

Marcus squeezed. Usually a good sign to button up. Besides, breaking the technique wouldn't work at half attention. If John went one way, his neck would snap in a single clean break. The other, his arm and shoulder would never reconnect ever again. John pulled at the sailor's arm and stretched out his legs. No room. The edges of the trainer's vision grew dark. His lips began to tingle and before he lost all sense of reason, he tapped Marcus' arm. The tendons relaxed. John sprawled out along the mat again, this time with a wincing gasp. Marcus stood up above him slowly. Masterful contemplation masked his sore back. He made sure not to touch it now that all eyes were pointed at the conclusion of this very valuable life lesson.

"Sensei," John tried to exclaim. Marcus didn't know if he wanted to smile or roll his eyes, after all, the lad should have been unconscious. "I'm not-,"

"Worthy?" Marcus finished. Yes, that's what he should have said but something kept him quiet. John calmed his heaving chest and opened his eyes. He stared off into the ceiling until Marcus leaned into his vision.

"That's exactly why I'm giving you this badge."

The gym leader moved aside and his pokemon replaced him. Porthos picked John up with two hands and set him on his feet again with the ease of a doll. The hariyama lingered a moment to make sure everything was steady. Marcus grunted to clear the mat again. Porthos returned to the sideline. The dojo master then nodded the nick in his chin to the world beyond the mat.

"Take a look around," Marcus instructed.

John obeyed, too tired to disobey and go yet another round with the Elite candidate. Several of the students were clustered into pairs around the far edges of the dojo. At his gaze, they sharpened their smiles into sneers, glanced away, and finished cleaning.

"Do you know what I see?" Marcus asked. "I see seven students; seven out of twenty that managed to successfully complete their last six months of study: Six of which are twiddling their thumbs and only one still on the mat." Marcus turned his eye at John. "One who against all odds, managed to survive a six month training camp that sent Aces crawling away on their hands and knees within the first week." He turned to face his one student. "I can't remember how many trainers we lost when they realized there're no toilets or Wi-Fi between these frosted peaks." Marcus shrugged. "Sure, you always come in last, hours late, and can't afford to hold a candle much less a pull up bar against the others but you always finish. No cut corners. No complaints."

Marcus stepped forward, placed his hand on John's shoulder, and squeezed it with a light shake.

"The sheer fact that you are still standing after sparring with me for the past two hours makes you worthy of my badge." Marcus removed his hand, and with it, pulled out a smile from John's exhaustion. "Don't belittle yourself, John. Meditation takes decades to perfect, especially for a spirit as rambunctious as yours. I think it's more interested in games than universal insight, I can't blame you for the limitations of your body when it comes to training, and as for winning a round against me, not many people or pokemon can. I've told you this before: I'm a simple but honest man. Don't expect so much of yourself. You have no talent as a pokemon trainer, or as a martial artist, and it's impossible for you to excel in either without a god given gift."

John bowed his head slightly with the last flicker of a dream that should have winked out with his youngster days. It was official. He would never become an Ace Trainer.

"But, I'll tell you this," Marcus quickly added. "Your fundamentals are the best I've ever seen. If half of your fellow students started on a foundation as solid as yours, the League would have a new set of Elite Four every year."

John dipped his head a little farther with the weight of a blush. His thoughts drifted off to the mason that fashioned those bricks long before he met Marcus Hailbringer.

"Learning how to raise pokemon from a Pokemon Ranger and climbing a mountain every day of my life might have had something to do with it," John shrugged.

Marcus laughed so hard John thought the gym leader would slap a knee, or worse, slap him on the back again.

"Good ol'Aria Wicket. What I wouldn't give to have her in the dojo again," he said, his own thoughts now drifting to that very same mason who built a part of his own history. Marcus looked off to the other side of the dojo where several pictures hung along the wall. One in particular caught his eye. John knew the exact one because it was the very same photo he glanced at whenever he was homesick. In the center of the second row, just below eye level, at the perfect spot to catch the wandering eye, was a single photo in a homemade wooden frame.

There was a woman in the middle of the photo. She had slung herself around Marcus' shoulder back when he was still without silver accents. Her own pine bark locks fell over her shoulder. They cascaded from the silent laughter frozen in the smile across her face. Several pokemon flanked them: a hariyama, arcanine, houndoom, ursaring, primeape, and the back of an aggron that didn't seem pleased to be present let alone photographed. John smiled. Both of his mentors, captured in a moment where they couldn't have been more exhausted, battle worn, and happy.

John wished he could be caught in such a moment.

"Next time you see her, tell her I'm looking for a rematch," Marcus announced.

"Best three outta' five?" John said.

Marcus laughed again. It was loud and hearty like a wind worn sailor just home from a voyage at sea in his favorite bar. He patted John on the shoulder, jostling him like a puppet.

"Damn right," he said. "And don't forget: I'm the gym leader and I'll do whatever the hell I want. I fight who I want, when I want, and give badges to who I want. It's my God given right. Now, leave me alone before that spirit of yours outlasts my good humor."

Marcus turned away with a wave of his hand. Porthos left the mat with a bow. John returned the curtesy. The dojo quieted with the departure of the other students now that the Master had left. No one cared to look at John now that the excitement was over. He was mere equipment as important as the wooden dummy in the corner. But their approval wasn't what he needed. John watched Marcus put a hand to his back when he cleared the door and thought that the other students weren't looking. A smile crept across his lips.

The only approval he needed, he already had.


	2. Homecoming Arc: 2

**Homecoming: 2**

Commencement: The end of one life and the beginning of another. It was a ceremony the Cork City gym held twice a year to showcase the results of its rigorous teachings. It was the official dojo way of 'leveling up', as the students advanced from one stage of training to the next. If, they made the cut. And when Marcus razed the weeds from the wheat, he did so without mercy. For a trainer nimble enough to dodge his sweeping stroke, commencement was one of the only times they could receive a Mountainside Badge.

Every pokemon gym leader had the right to bestow a badge on who they wanted, whether they won or lost, as long as they proved themselves worthy of the pride of their gym. Not every commencement saw a badge and most students, and challengers, received only the sole of Sensei's foot. Twice a year they had their chance and twice a year they often failed. The summer ceremony carried the most excitement because it occurred after the student's six month sabbatical up on the mountain. For six months, challenges built up as journeying trainers visited the dojo only to find a few meditating pokemon and unenthusiastic house guests. Void of its students and leader, they waited, biting their nails for the chance to gain the glory within the Mountainside Badge.

Marcus felt no need to rush to the demands of the Pokemon League. After all, trainers would wait all year if they had to, but luckily for them, fighting was this gym's specialty. The official ceremony was held the day after coming down from the mountain. Everyone participated. From pokemon to pupil, it was a hurricane of preparation and peacocking until those early morning hours when the dojo assembled at sunrise to the beat of leather bound drums. Then, formality and respect dawned the life of a new era. It began in silence as the Dojo Master recognized the perseverance and fortitude of each and every one of his students, even if they did not receive the ultimate glory, with an exchange of silent respect. Although silence wasn't every student's strong suit.

"Can you believe it, Charles? Tomorrow, I'll earn my first gym badge," John exclaimed to the classic ball in his hand. In the other, he held his pokebelt. A martial arts gi wasn't suited for such an accessory so the trainer kept the belt wrapped around his one fist. The three empty slots on one side allowed for such a grip. Red and white knuckles were much more natural than brass anyway. With one last squeeze, John snapped the ball back into place. The flanking nest and classic ball nudged it in congratulations. All three deserved a stroke of the hand.

Six months. It had been six months since John walked along the dojo's main house veranda. He glanced down at the wood panels sliding underneath his house socks. The compound was lifted as if on stilts, but instead of water, sand and dirt ran under the planks. The veranda wrapped around every wall of the house. Similar wooden skirts dressed the other buildings of the compound. Paper lattice walls guided the passerby down one side of the walkway. Open archways revealed the courtyards and gardens along the other. John sighed himself into a smile. He wiggled his toes against the polished planks. Gurgling rock fountains slowed his walk to a crawl and a rustle of the trees stopped him all together. John looked out beyond the rock garden to the dark shadow of the compound wall that encircled the complex.

The Cork City Gym and Dojo kept its secret techniques carefully guarded behind those old stones but even they couldn't keep the forest from peeking over the top of the tile roof. The Champagne Mountains rose above the compound walls into the distance. Unlike the ones John grew up in, this range shed colors with the seasons. Its peaks were short and close. They created a line of razor teeth to intimidate the mere idea of invasion, and if the sharp peaks didn't cut off the city from civilization, then the mountains sent a mist to drift down and silence the buzz of the world below.

Tonight, there was no fog. The sky was clear and weather warm. There was no need to bite back at humanity for its fool hardy ambition of conquest. After all, tomorrow was commencement and these were the Champagne Mountains, they used every excuse to celebrate. Orange paper lantern lights illuminated the veranda. Baby venomoth buzzed around the softly glowing spheres. John walked up underneath one. Its orange glow fluttered with the shadow of the moths.

If he followed the string, he'd find his way to a small building where the students slept. It was a short walk but the stone gardens and red maples along the side had a tendency to extend the journey. Returning to civilization from the six month training sabbatical was easy here. The transition from nature to man was nearly unrecognizable in a place perfectly in balance with the very mountain it was set upon. No wonder he lived here for two years with little complaint. It felt like home.

And with this badge, it officially was.

The little old town of Boulder, Valenis, where he grew up might be jealous at the thought but, then again, John had acquired a home away from home long before he let the fizz of these sparkling mountains tickle his cheeks. There was a place, just outside Boulder town limits, that would forever pull the young trainer's heart into a love triangle: The Conservation Outpost. It was a pokemon and natural sanctuary that collectively encompassed the entire Valic Mountain Range. Getting lost in its depths at the ripe age of five and a half taught John exactly what he needed: Adventure.

The Outpost was a long way from Cork City, all the way on the other side of the region, but John could still see those mountains. The orange light of the lanterns turned yellow in his eyes. They flickered like the sun through the canopy of the sanctuary's forest, and it in turn, like the eyes of the person that protected it. He saw the outline of her shadow, how her hair used to dangle over him to dip into his daydreams when he napped in the woods. At times, he thought her a dream in of itself, a dream who taught him more about pokemon and life than living it himself.

And her name was Aria Wicket.

She was John's very first mentor and "best-est" of friends. It was her recommendation that convinced Marcus to accept him as a student in the first place two years ago. How many months had passed since he last talked to Aria, or anyone outside of Cork City, for that matter? Without cellphones, pokemon messengers, or even a steady physical location up on the mountain, external communication was nonexistent. John's stomach fluttered at the thought.

God, he had so much to tell her.

He squeezed the loop of his pokebelt even tighter. Stories of mishaps, surprises, laughter, and unexpected encounters, tickled his lips, just waiting to pour out and fill the space between those two mountain ranges. So many swirled into memory that remembering one led to the recollection of another, and another, and another. John anchored himself with the most recent, the one where he earned a Cork City gym badge. Marcus approved of him, but that approval was second to the one that came before it. Aria never officially announced it. She never had to, not when she was there for every grade school pokemon tournament, cheering as if he was fighting in the North White Fantasy Tournament instead of a spray painted soccer field. Not when each rescue mission that plucked him off of the side of a mountain came with bright eyed enthusiasm begging for a tale of exploration and definitely not when Aria picked him out of all the other troopers to go on patrol when the mountain was slick with rain and danger was at its highest.

And if that Pokemon Ranger didn't believe in him, she never would have let him set foot in the Outpost. Her pokemon would have made sure of that. But this time was different. This time, he would have her come out and say it: that she was proud of him.

"Looking to head into the light?"

John dropped his eyes from the lantern. Three of his fellow students stood on the veranda in front of him, blocking the way to the dorms.

"I won't stop you," the student continued. "Hell, you might just do us all a favor."

"Hello, Duncan," John sighed with a glance at the two flanking students. "I see you've brought Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee this time."

The two Tweedles looked at one another and the matching stripped patch on their warm ups.

"If your meditation was as deep as your daydreaming, you might just have gotten somewhere in this dojo," Duncan continued.

"Actually, I am going somewhere," John replied as he walked between them. "Bed."

A heavy hand hit John's chest and put him to a stop in line with the group.

"We saw your last match with Marcus," Tweedle Dum said.

"And how he threw you into the mat," Tweedle Dee finished from the other side.

"What can I say," John replied with a turn of his head between them. "My talents require _special_ attention."

Duncan's eye twitched. He stepped forward and stabbed his shoulder into John's. Both kept their eyes straight. The young trainer rested his gaze lazily over Duncan's shoulder. The challenger sheared his glare close to his rival's neck.

"Just because your Sensei's favorite doesn't mean you get special treatment," Duncan hissed.

If only he knew just how _special_ an extra ten rounds on the mat with Sensei felt like. John leaned in a little closer. He paused before speaking to sharpen his tongue against his teeth.

"I thought you said I wasn't good enough to play favorites?" he whispered back.

Duncan shoved the breath away before its heat burned his skin. John tottered back underneath the lanterns with more will than wobble in his steps.

"You're not really thinking of attending commencement tomorrow, are you?" Duncan spat.

"It would be an insult to the other students if I didn't," John replied. "After all, without me, how would they know how good they are?"

"Stop playing dumb. We heard that you're up for a badge."

It was hard _not_ too when the announcement literally laid John flat on his back. The whole Dojo knew by now, most students probably laughing it off as a joke, but Duncan wasn't laughing. In fact, the amount of strain in his neck made it difficult for him to breath. He might just pop a blood vessel. But why? There was no need for envy. Unless . . . John glanced between Duncan and the Tweedles.

"None of you are up for a badge," he gasped. "Not a single student in the dojo except me."

Duncan's knuckles stretched white. His fists squeezed the hot blood all the way up into his cheeks. He suddenly tore off the jacket to his warm ups. The wall of muscle underneath unconsciously flexed when in the presence of a lesser being.

"Come on, Duncan. Really? Right here? Right now?" John asked. "Can't we at least go to the mat?"

"Stop talking and take your stance."

"We both know Sensei won't change his mind. When it's set, it's set. Right or wrong."

"I'll make him."

John coughed back a chuckle. It only made Duncan's veins swell even further.

"Once I show Sensei how pathetic you are," he continued. "He'll have to change his mind."

"Trust me. I've tried."

"Fight me."

"Haven't you beaten me enough in training to know you'll win?"

"This time, I won't just win a match."

"To be honest, I was just as surprised as you are when he told me."

"Shut up!"

Duncan glanced at his sides. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee shuffled back, taking their leader's shirt and jacket in full Cork City pre-fight stripping tradition. The heavy weight shook out his arms, bounced on his toes, and swiped a thumb across his nose. Several warm up punches snapped as sharply as the hisses between his teeth.

John glanced up at the venomoth again. They dispersed when the lanterns shook with the preparations of the heavy weight. Off into the darkness they went and John never once considered following them. And why would he? A passionate orange glow warmed the lattice walls. Their silhouettes were stark against the cream paper: Two fighters. Two techniques. One dojo. Never again would he have the chance to relive his favorite Kung Foo movies. Besides, if Sensei couldn't teach properly, he made it a point to pound at least one life lesson into each and every student: never back down from a fight.

"Alright, Duncan," John yielded. "If it'll make you feel better."

He loosened the pokebelt around his fist. A sharp scoff cut him off.

"Please," Duncan exclaimed. "I know your party by heart. I don't need pokemon to defeat you."

Clearly, the heavy weight needed something and John wasn't sure he could give it to him. Ever. But a challenge was a challenge. John laid his pokebelt along the lattice wall. Judging by the way Duncan eyed his every move, he didn't have time to rub out the ache in his neck implanted earlier that evening. Deep breathing would also have to wait. Too deep a draw now would merely aggravate his throbbing ribs. Boy, did Duncan know how to cheat fair and square.

John took off his house slippers. Someone must have slacked off in training because the floor panels were polished smooth, giving his toes a nice grip. Good. Now, he could balance on his weakened thigh without conscious effort.

John settled into his stance. To most, it resembled a relaxed standing posture rather than a combative pose. To Duncan, it was an insult. The heavy weight suddenly lifted off of his heels. It was a quick and well balanced shift but it took effort to move such muscle, and more effort meant more time. John took a backwards step as Duncan's fist flew for his face. He watched it pass his cheek. A decent strike. Clear-cut but slow compared to the ursaring's paw normally clawing for his face, and yet, John knew he wasn't fast enough to counter it. That's why he ducked. Duncan's palm brushed the neck of this gi. Its partner sprang forward, this time, grabbing for a shoulder.

John knocked it away. It opened a hole to his lower body. Duncan filled it with a kick. John caught it against his ribs and hip with a short gasping grunt. He kept it there with a tight grip around the ankle and calf to catch his breath. One twist and he'd claim the advantage. Duncan saw the potential disaster, John's avoidance of it, and yanked his leg free. The thrill of a successful blow now dulled by the mercy of his opponent.

"It doesn't make sense," Duncan confessed. "You of all people earn a Mountainside Badge? You're not worthy of such an honor."

"Tell me about it."

John grunted into a sharp inhale as another fist lunged for him. It was faster than before. He pulled up a defense against it but a second clipped his arm and made way for a third. Luckily, it didn't touch skin, only the fine hairs along it. John stumbled back with the phantom touch tingling his jaw. Duncan lowered his arms to his sides. They lifted and fell with each huff of air. The growling granbull had just as much bite as his bark. Impressive but predictable. Duncan probably had no clue that his chest lifted with every advance, that his nostrils flared, and wrists twisted when he was ready to attack.

John recognized the technique. His foot slipped forward in the appropriate retaliation. The heavy weight launched another white knuckled strike. It crossed paths with John's. He felt the exchange along their arms. The trainer's forearm coiled too far left and Duncan's wrist came over it. Shit. John's back hit one of the veranda posts, shaking the string of lanterns above. He touched a finger to his lip at the taste of salty blood and smiled. The heavy weight was getting slower.

"You're a mockery of the arts," Duncan exclaimed. "If it was up to me, I would've thrown you out when you walked through the gate."

"And if it was up to me, I'd give you another week on the mountain. That punch only made my jaw tingle. You're getting lazy. Wait. Maybe I'm getting faster?"

The wood panels creaked. Cloth pulled in a flutter of rushed movement. A clawed hand sprang for John's throat. It was the "Electrike Fist". One of Duncan's favorites. The best way to avoid it was a body roll: a textbook move highlighted, underlined, written, and rewritten in John's body a thousand times, and a thousand times, Duncan had pinned him to suffocation.

To hell with expectation. This was his commencement.

John dropped his chin, clenched his teeth into a smile, and launched into Duncan's charge with a shadow over his eyes. They came head to head again, neither gaze able to look at one another, shoulder to shoulder. John's patience mistaken for laziness. Duncan's rage misused as pride. John's fist blurred as it rocketed into Duncan's face, flattening his nose so quickly that the blood didn't spray until after the follow through when the heavy weight flew backwards out of his charge. He crashed through a panel of the lattice wall into a pile of tissue and tooth picks. John staggered back into balance from the recoil. He looked up and the rest of the wall fell as quickly as his jaw.

"It worked!" John laughed.

The two Tweedles rushed to the edges of the hole. Duncan threw away the debris in a snarl worthy of a nasal injury. Tweedle Dum and Dee quickly hid behind the walls. John raised an arm against the eruption of splinters. He never saw the charge coming. He only felt it hit his chest harder than a bus on the expressway. Duncan carried John off of his feet and rammed him into a wooden post. It bent with a sharp crack, pulling out a string of lantern lights down the length of the veranda. Something clicked and rattled. Duncan pulled out into a spin that dragged John over his shoulder. It flipped the light weight onto the floor. Stars exploded across his eyes. Luckily, he was accustomed to the sensation.

John rolled to the side. A foot stomped down in the spot his head had been. Droplets of blood splattered across the space. They dripped from the slick goatee staining the bottom half of Duncan's face. He lifted his head with bloody teeth. Tweedle Dum quickly grabbed him by the arm.

"Hey man, slow down," he said. A fist for the face quickly turned him away.

John wobbled into a hunch. He tensed in instinct, throwing up his arms in a guard. A barrage of strikes pummeled it, ending with a swift kick to the center of his chest. John tottered backwards, tripped over the edge of the veranda, and fell into the rock garden. He disappeared out of the light in a sandy _pound_. The even ripples flattened as the young trainer slowly rolled to his side. If his ribs weren't already bruised, they were now.

For someone who was supposed to have no talent as a martial artist, he sure knew how to pick a fight.

Duncan stamped a foot onto the edge of the porch. Tweedle Dee grabbed his shoulder on the left. Dum on his right.

"Pulverize him," they warned, "and we lose any chance of getting a badge!"

Losing the exact thing Duncan was fighting for was enough to pull him out of the rampage. He shrugged off his companions and straightened his back with a deep inhale. At the end of the exhale, he held out his hand. Tweedle Dee produced a pokebelt. In the garden, John calmly crawled over to the nearest boulder.

"Choose a pokemon," Duncan yelled from the porch behind him.

For the love of - . . . was kicking the shit out of him not enough? Did they have to have a pokemon battle now too? John sat up against the rock to face the main house. He pinched an eye against the light that shadowed the three still standing under it. It darkened the blood stain down Duncan's chin to a black smear. Apparently, one good hit on the heavy weight and the match was lost. Funny, because John's liver didn't feel like a winner.

"Choose!" Duncan shouted again.

The heavy weight required total domination whether it was people or pokemon. John smiled. Who knew the young trainer had ever been such a threat? Duncan ripped off a pokeball from his belt. A stream of energy flew out with a click. It twisted down to the sand, digging out a place for a Machoke who broke the materialization with a flex of his arms. Like pokemon like trainer. John glanced away from the sudden flash. Duncan was seriously having an episode. This fight had become much more than a competition.

"Enough," John said. "Take your tantrum somewhere else."

Duncan threw the rest of his belt away.

"I said choose a pokemon," he repeated.

"For the love of - I don't even have my pokemon," John exclaimed. "Does it look like I can stand, let alone battle?"

"Are you refusing a challenge?"

The spirit of the dojo laughed in a haunting echo of the lantern lights. John shook his head and adjusted the arm around his chest. _Now_ , Duncan wanted to recite life lessons. Despite his convenient way of remembering them, the heavy weight was right.

"I wouldn't be a proper disciple if I did," John sighed.

Life Lesson #17: Never back down from a fight, even if it's your destiny to lose. It was one of Sensei's personal favorites and the epitome of John's training career.

"God damn it, chose already!" Duncan shouted.

John laughed. Whoever said rage was blind never had a rival. Charles and the rest of his pokemon were still along the wall near the middle of the veranda. There was no party to choose from at the base of the boulder in a rock garden.

"Alright, I'll choose," John shouted back, if only to quiet Duncan's prevalent childhood issues. There was still one rather inappropriate gesture he was willing to throw out. He raised a fist. "And I choose-,"

One of the electrical boxes outside of the compound sharply popped. Several lights in the facility went out, dousing the garden in darkness. Only a half string of lanterns at the back of the veranda kept their glow due to a battery pack. Duncan and the Tweedles lost sight of John in the sudden change, even in his white gi. And with the light to their backs, John only saw three flat black silhouettes against the pale orange light that barely reached the corner of the house. Machoke glanced behind him, split between the dark and the light and where he should go.

Something rustled along the compound wall. John caught it first, having already adjusted to the quiet of the garden. He turned his head to the side and searched the darkness. Nothing. Not even a hoothoot. Did the breaker pop scare them off? John looked back toward the lantern light. He froze as something suddenly jumped down from the top of the compound wall onto the top of the boulder he leaned against. The dust of its landing rustled the hair over his ear. Silence followed. John's eyes went whiter than his jacket.

The silence wasn't empty.

It moved and slipped off of the rock to stand. John couldn't see it but he felt the sand shift against him. The darkness had weight to it. There was something there. It was something born of darkness, something that had learned to exist without a presence and there were two things in this world that could achieve such a feat: A predator . . . and its prey.

John didn't dare turn to look. The darkness moved forward. A soft jingle, like the single toll of a bell, chimed in the garden. Its haunting resonance teased with the cruelty of a curse. One would have thought it a figment of the imagination, but the sound could not be missed. After all, Machoke heard it clearer than a scream. He swallowed a cotton tongue, took a step back, and felt a bead of sweat run down his temple. A solid living thing materialized out of the dimension of darkness in front of him. It stepped forward into the light. It was no phantom that hunted him

but a houndoom.

Its horns caught the light first. Ringed with deep punctuated ridges, they curled around the sides of the canine's head into tight spirals. A boney plate connected them. It ran down between the canine's eyes, announcing to all who saw it that he was dressed for war. Two greenish yellow reflective discs flashed in black hollow sockets where his eyes should have been. The weight of his armored head pulled his neck out of the darkness, then his shoulders, and two front legs. Metal bracelets above his paws dragged the invisible chains of hell behind him. The silver armor continued down his back in the form of curved spines. They hugged the hound's ribs as if he wore the skeleton of his greatest kill, the pieces fused to his body from too many nights sleeping in a bed of bones.

A barb point tail swung out from behind the houndoom. It slowed with the drag of a pendulum counting the last heartbeats of a dying man. Three beats left until the clock ran out. Duncan held his breath. Two beats left. The tip of the barbed point drifted close to the sand. The bead of sweat hit the end of Machoke's jaw. One . . . The tail stopped and the monitor ran flat.

Houndoom lowered his head in a snarl that spat flames between his teeth. Machoke stumbled back into the edge of the porch and his heels caught the wood. He fell backwards, taking out one of the Tweedles in the process. The other grabbed Duncan for support, who in turn, shoved him to the ground and took off down the length of the veranda. His bare feet slipped on the blood of his broken nose. Both knees crashed to the floor. They propelled him into a crawl that brought the heavy weight to his feet again. He sprinted with everything he could to escape the apparition.

Houndoom lowered his head and flickered out of existence. Duncan rounded the corner of the main house only to have the canine reappear in front of him. Lantern lights wobbled and flickered with the energy of the phantom teleport. Duncan stumbled to a halt. Sweat flew from his brow as he pulled backwards in retreat. Houndoom lowered his head again with a snap of his teeth. Sparks jumped from the white flint stones. Hackles prickled along his neck. The hound's claws scratched the wood with each advancing step. Too afraid to expose his back and run, Duncan walked backwards and tripped over his ankles. He sat heavily on the floor with a shudder of the veranda. Houndoom's barbed tail lashed and cracked like a whip when the edge cut across the wood.

"D-d-demon!" Duncan stuttered. The lanterns swung up above, rhythmically splashing light across the dark pokemon's body, highlighting his gaze in greenish yellow pin points with each pass. Both rows of polished teeth glowed against the darkness of the canine's body, although, they were hard to catch between the clapping and snapping of ember sneezing growls. Hot tinder floated down to the floor. It glowed a deep red like the cedar wood underneath.

"Stay back!" Duncan shouted as he scooted into the corner post. All the training in the world couldn't help him now. What was a punch against superstition? The physical world was no match against the spiritual. What could possibly ward away an evil spirit?

"Lopo?"

The houndoom lifted his head. His heavy helmet turned down the veranda to the young man leaning against one of the posts, cradling his ribs with one arm and holding his balance against the beam with the other. Blood and sand frosted his cheek. Even without the tussle of combat, his hair had trouble staying in place. He was tall, thin for a fighter, but not without his weapons. He wielded two shining eyes bright enough to illuminate the dark pokemon's body from the shadows.

"Lopo, is that you?" John asked again.

The cut on his mouth stung with the breadth of his smile. The houndoom's glassy stare warmed with the heat of a fire type. His tail lightly wagged with the devoted nature of his canine family. John didn't know why he bothered asking such a question. He knew that black acrylic coat since he first painted his fingers with it in grade school.

"I can't believe it's you!"

Lopo, the houndoom, turned away from Duncan. His paws picked up into a gallop as John swayed away from the post. The trainer also started down the veranda but the returning ache in his thigh put him in a stumble for the floor. His hand caught the curl of a horn as the canine came up underneath him but it wasn't enough to stop the momentum of the fall. The two reunited on the floor. Lopo licked the young trainer's face. John kept his head turned away to keep the rigid horns from cutting his cheeks. The nest of shredded paper swirled away as Lopo pawed John down to the floor and stood over him with nibbles and nuzzles of the snout.

Duncan couldn't believe his eyes but it was the sound that got to him. Was that chuckling? Lopo nudged the young trainer even harder when two hands playfully came up in resistance. Was John laughing?

The question was too much for Duncan to comprehend. His eyes rolled back and he dropped down to the floor, white eyed with mouth agape in unconsciousness. The slump resonated into a much harder _thud_ as a primeape suddenly dropped down from the ceiling onto the veranda. Ditch, the primeape, looked down at Duncan. He tapped the student's foot with his own. No response. He tapped again although, at this point, using a stick would have been more polite. It wasn't an uncommon discovery for the pig monkey pokemon. The smell of blood, however, wrinkled his nose. It smeared the whole half of Duncan's face. Drops trailed from it along the floor. They flattened into footprints that led down the veranda to the explosion of wall litter across the middle. Within it was a pokemon he didn't recognize, a pokemon that bit at the neck of another student on the floor who also smelled of blood.

Ditch threw his fists to the floor with a squeal. Veins popped through his fur across his forehead. He charged with a crack of the wood panels beneath his feet. Lopo sharply lifted his head with a whip of his tail. John sat up with a gasp and threw himself in front of the houndoom with an outstretched arm.

"Wait!" he cried at the monkey pokemon.

A _focus punch_ blew by the side of the trainer's head. A second later and he would have been more than unconscious. Ditch held his breath as the _punch_ skimmed John's temple. He successfully diverted the attack, but there was nothing he could do about the energy emanating around it. Ditch flew by. John flinched as the sonic boom threw him sideways and to the floor. Lopo jumped over the trainer with a _flamethrower_. Its girth filled the space between two veranda arches where the monkey landed. Flames curled over the roof and under the floor. Several pillars and panels caught fire, forcing Ditch up onto the roof to escape.

John quickly sat up again with a hand to his head. He blinked into focus only for Lopo to furiously snatch him by the back of the collar and yank backwards, dragging him down the length of the boardwalk in retreat.

"Stop, Lopo. It's alright. It's safe here!" John cried. He grabbed his collar to keep from choking against the drag of his own weight. The canine's smoky breath burned his neck. At the other corner of the main house, two senior disciples of the dojo assisting with commencement appeared. They came to a halt with silent taps of their house socks. Marcus charged forward between them bare footed. He smelt the blood before he saw it, felt the heat of his home on fire before he drew close, and through the smoke, saw a feral houndoom dragging his student away from him.

"Johnny!" Marcus roared.

Two pokeballs sprang open in his hands before the shout was over. Their red energy only intensified the heat of the flames and heightened Ditch's spirit as he swung back down onto the porch from the roof. Another snorting squeal propelled him forward. The flames waved sharply at his passing. It was too fast to out maneuver. It would be head to head. Lopo dropped John to the floor. Ditch leapt into the air and another _focus punch_ swirling around his fist.

Lopo disappeared in a _faint attack_ , John's back hit the boards, and the monkey pokemon soared over the trainer. Lopo suddenly reappeared the same way, pouncing after Ditch. His white teeth snapped shut with an empty _clap_ as two different clawed paws met his horns head to hand. An Ursaring dropped the houndoom back to the floor but not before all four paws braced the landing. Ditch rolled in between the legs of the hibernator pokemon and glanced back when he came to a crouched stop.

The bear dwarfed any full grown man. The hair on his shoulder spiked outwards from over used hackles and his right eye showcased a scar worthy of the blindness the wound had caused. B.B., the Ursaring, pushed Lopo to a standstill. That was, until the canine pushed back. Lopo slammed one paw after another in a growing freight train of resistance that broke the friction of the floor and slid B.B. along the polished boards. The bear stamped a foot down to stop it, breaking the panels in a sharp crack. He dropped into them and might as well have stepped on a barrel of gasoline. A _flamethrower_ erupted from Lopo's mouth, catching in the hole and back splashing to engulf them both. B.B. threw off his grip. His calloused paws glistened with blood.

"Lopo, stop!" John shouted. He scrambled to his feet, his gi now off center and blackened along his neck. "They're friends, remember?"

Something in the words stuck. Lopo sheared off the attack and jumped backwards. B.B. waved away the smoke and patted out his smoldering coat. Dried blood transferred onto his fur.

"Porthos," Marcus ordered from behind.

A Hariyama walked out onto the veranda from the hole in the wall. He glanced from one side to the other in a panorama of chaos. An unmistakable frown creased his eyes. Blue energy slipped over his glove. He waved his arm in an arch worthy of a ballet and pumped a _force palm_ from his hand with the power of an _arm thrust_. A concussion of energy rocketed down one side of the house. Lanterns blew back. Debris swept itself into the darkness. B.B. covered his face as the wave rushed past him and snubbed out the flames. Lopo braved the tsunami with a tuck of his head. John stepped forward as the wave hit his back in a gentle tap.

Methodically, Porthos followed the same ritual in the opposite direction. A second _palm thrust_ propelled down the other side of the main house. Its passing blew out the flames along the porch. Marcus didn't pinch an eye as it hit. His disciples caught themselves on nearby posts. The rock garden quieted and the bobbing lanterns calmed in several weak flickers. Marcus clenched his hands into fists. His cheeks burned to a tomato red.

"Just what the hell is going on here?!" he demanded.

John flinched lightly. He looked at B.B., Duncan, and Primeape on one end of the porch; Porthos, Marcus, and his two disciples at the other, and all of the wreckage in between. Personal grudges were fine for a martial artist. Competition was encouraged, but a fight after curfew, with unexpected guests, extensive property damage, and no excuses, John was surprised Marcus didn't throw him over the compound walls with his bare hands.

"Would you believe me if I said it was a misunderstanding?" John asked.

A slate tile dropped from the roof where the flames had eaten away the wood and cracked against the decking. Porthos winced at it. Lopo crept up against John's legs, keeping an eye on Marcus just as much as the pokemon nearby. The gym leader looked down at him now that the canine was easier to see against the white of his student's gi. Recognition set in. There was only one houndoom in the whole region of Valenis with curls as tight as that.

This night time phantom was none other than Aria Wicket's fire canine.

Marcus would know because the houndoom had bested each of his pokemon at one time or another. With it, details of the situation once missed came to life around him. Duncan's machoke, the arm around John's chest, and the two Tweedles trying too hard to stay out of sight, they told a different story than the one he first believed. These new details may have justified the chaos, but still, someone needed to pay for that hole in the wall.

"I don't know what happened here but you better believe it's not over," Marcus threatened. He swung his gaze over to the Tweedles. They stiffened to attention.

"You two, pull out the spare panels for the wall and floor, clean up this mess, and don't leave until everything touched by the slightest bit of soot is replaced."

The two split with a hasty "Yes, Sensei!" Chasing wood grains into the wee hours of the night was a merciful fate. Marcus turned to his disciples. "Manchez, get my wife," he barked. "Begin with an apology and she'll know what to do. Just make sure you stay at least two feet away or you'll find yourself in a worse mess than this one. Fuller, take that idiot Duncan to the examination room. If he doesn't wake up, slap him a few times, and if he does wake up, slap him anyway." Manchez and Fuller grinned. Commencement was just as exciting as they remembered it. Sensei then turned to John and Lopo.

"And you," he bellowed. John flinched again, and this time, it wasn't from the pain in his ribs. "You're coming with me."


	3. Homecoming Arc: 3

**Homecoming: 3**

Marcus knew dried blood when he saw it, even in the dim gray light of a faraway moon, he could not mistake its shadow. Dried blood had a texture to it: rough and cemented. When scratched, you could still smell the metallic sting of iron in the dust. There was an inexplicable weight to it, one that pulled Marcus' eyes down to the muddied rags at his feet. The pile rose above his ankles. The packaging of a new set of white towels lay beside it. He didn't know where the blood had come from, only what it had left behind.

Marcus looked up from his seat on the edge of the dormitory veranda to exam his work. Lopo stood in front of him freshly bathed. The canine's coat gleamed now that the layers of grime and filth had been washed away. A silver line created by the distant star light traced his frame, outlining him against the night. Marcus preferred the total darkness because the strengthening light against the canine's body only darkened the shadows along it, hiding Lopo's eyes and the motion of his breathing, everything that made him living.

Marcus rolled his thoughts from one side of his jaw to the other. He chewed them slowly and thoroughly. Only between the drips of the nearby spigot did he speak.

"It's been a while," Marcus said.

Lopo remained silent. His tail flicked lightly, drawing the gym leader's attention to it. It was hard to see in the dark but there was a large nick in the spade point. For some reason, it made the natural edge sharper than normal. From a fight, maybe? Marcus looked up into the black eyes staring at him from behind the shadows. He worked his jaw, moving the nick in his own chin.

"I don't remember that one," he said in reference to the canine's tail. A drop from the spigot hit the water trough underneath it. Ripples shuddered across the glassy surface. Just what else did Marcus remember about the canine? He held out a fist in greeting to the dark pokemon in order to find out. Lopo looked at the knuckles, sniffed them, and lingered. Slowly, the fingers uncurled into a flat hand. The houndoom walked into them, rubbing them down his neck. Marcus felt the scars first, small patches of bare skin that were rougher than the surrounding fur. Some were old. Some new. Considering the amount of battle dirt rubbed into the canine's skin better than a seasoned turkey dinner, there weren't as many as he expected.

Lopo didn't let the fingers linger. Scars were a fighter's brail and could be read by anyone who understood the language, and he was not here for stories, only to satisfy an itch he didn't care to scratch himself. The houndoom shifted to the side of the dojo master. Marcus kept his hand at arm's length to passively rub the houndoom's side as it passed. His fingers strummed hollowed ribs. The dull tap of bone drew his attention to the horns crossing his head. The grooves were sharp and rough, unpolished.

"Getting old?" Marcus rumbled. "Neck too stiff for the usual boulder rubbing and steel butting?"

Lopo hopped up onto the veranda with a clack of his uncut claws against the wood. One of the metal bracelets over his paws showcased a fracture around the cuff, causing the pieces to overlap. It jingled ever so softly, summoning spirits like the tap of a shaman's ancient staff. He walked along the veranda towards the student dormitory and the one cubicle still lit. A sliver of yellow light ran along the floor from the crack in the sliding door. Marcus watched, glancing at the door of every other room the canine passed. He didn't know why, but he was glad they were empty.

The canine made his way to John's room. Marcus got to his feet and stepped up on the veranda to follow, his steps much more noticeable than the houndoom's paws. Lopo stopped outside the door and looked back. For a moment, Marcus felt the urge to stop as well, much like a young trainer when they stumbled across a wild pokemon in the grass too good to be true, but there was nothing _good_ about the stare that faced him. Not only did it attempt to dissuade his advance but it challenged any sort of pursuit. As a dojo master, it wasn't in Marcus' mind or body to stop at the presentation of a challenge, but there was something in Lopo's eyes he had not seen before, something he didn't remember.

It had been almost a year since Aria and her pokemon last came to visit the dojo, but in those black eyes now catching the light of the door, one showcasing a silver reflective crescent, he saw a lifetime. Lopo turned away and nudged the sliding door open. Marcus couldn't find an explanation to the look but he did finally remember one thing about the canine: One year ago, the houndoom would have waited for permission before entering.

"Lopo!" came a cry from within the room.

The tension of the stare suddenly evaporated in the warmth of the call. Marcus rolled his eyes. It was hard not too when the syllables twinkled like a string of colored Christmas lights. He strode over to the door, slid it open to accommodate his size, but did not enter the room. The dormitories were nothing more than cubbies meant for dressing and sleeping. Trimmed in lattice and cream paper, there was little more than a two shelf crate, small lamp, and sleeping mat inside. With two people and a houndoom already in the room, the gym leader wouldn't fit without stepping on somebody's toes.

"You can lower your arms now," a second voice said. It was a woman's, soft and commanding to which only a matriarch could achieve. John lowered his raised arms with a slow exhale, careful to avoid the fire canine curling around him. He touched the bandages wrapped around his chest. His fingers weren't nearly as gentle as the ones that came before them.

"You're lucky nothing's broken," Joyce Hailbringer continued as she put her medical supplies back into her portable kit. "Just bruised."

"How can you tell?" John asked with a poke of his ribs that made him wince. "Sure feels like they're broken."

"Nurse's intuition," Joyce winked.

"Good," Marcus suddenly cut in from the doorway. "That means you're fully capable of giving me a damn good excuse for why you set my house on fire."

Lopo lowered his head underneath John's arm but there wasn't a trace of submission weighing his horns. John's face fell with the swift revival of his sensei's fury but it was Joyce who answered.

"Finished with your patient, Marcus?" the nurse suddenly asked with a slow up turn of her eyes from Lopo to her husband. "Good . . . but I'm not."

She snapped her kit, and Marcus' mouth, shut in an instant. The gym leader stayed in the doorway even as Joyce returned her gaze, and smile, to John.

"Don't move around too much if you don't have too," she continued. "You'll heal but it'll take some time."

"I'm guessing that means no matches for a while, then?" John asked with a crack of his smile.

"Not unless you want a lung full of splinters."

"A few more holes might just help me breathe a little easier."

Joyce's smirk cut off the rest of John's chuckle. He swallowed down the pieces and proceeded to reach over Lopo for a loose jacket to cover his bare and bandaged chest. Marcus remained quiet. His position at the door, although second to the one that sat in front of him, had a better view of just exactly what it was Joyce was treating. Marcus caught a glimpse of John's skin before he pulled the jacket over it. The entire shoulder was a multitude of purples and blues. The cool colors of the new bruises offset the older green and brown spots dotting his forearms. Grappling was never kind, especially to those who often found themselves at the bottom of the pile.

The light of the lamp warmed the walls of the small room and yet they only seemed to pale John's skin to a sickly hue. His long limbs were made thinner now that the entirety of his chest from underarm to abdomen was tightly bandaged. The young trainer looked up, and when he caught Marcus' stare, he sheepishly pretended that he didn't. It wasn't out of embarrassment. Joyce knew John's body better than the boy did himself, and there were more bare chests than shirts and shoes out on the training field on a daily basis.

Cork City gym had a way of showcasing battle scars. There was a story to tell with every bruise and John was one of the few that could point them out by name. They were his trophies of surviving one of the most ruthless pokemon gyms in the region. They were proof of his existence and place in this world. It was not shame that turned John's eyes away but guilt, for once again, he had not been good enough to come out the victor. Little did he know that Joyce furiously tossed and turned at night when she _wasn't_ summoned for duty. Marcus experienced many a nightly beating in bed by his wife when the students didn't seek treatment or therapy after practice.

"I can still train though, right?" John asked as he slowly pulled on the second sleeve of his jacket and pulled out yet another smile from the infinite box of humor in his soul.

"You'll have to cut that out too," Joyce answered. "You can't help yourself when it comes to your pokemon, more so than your own wellbeing."

"What about warm ups?"

"If I catch you in a single stretch then your next dressing will have the full force of my medical expertise behind it."

John tenderly held his chest. Marcus sympathized with him. Neither had realized that B.B. the Ursaring could cry until Joyce patched him up after a training exercise she had disapproved of. But then again, she was the wife of a Cork City gym leader.

"Does that mean, I've been exiled from the mat?" John asked with a pinch of his eye.

"Banished completely," Joyce answered. A smile spread between them. "I've probably said this before, but I've never had a patient quite like you, Johnny Hawkins. You bend when others break and turn torture into a tickle. I have to say: you are my best work."

"I was raised in fire and steel," John replied with a shrug. He tried to laugh but it came out with too much cough to go unnoticed. Joyce turned to him in full medical practitioner instinct. Her _keen eye_ watched every movement, weighing his spectrum of pain for something he may have hidden from her, but the symptom was short lived, the result of finally admitting to his discomfort. Good. It meant he was starting to relax. Now, Marcus could interrogate him without guilt. Joyce quickly intervened before a single toe entered the room. She stood, turned to face Marcus with John at her back, and softly patted him on the chest.

"Now, I'm all finished," she announced. "Take me back to bed, husband. I think there's been enough talking for one night." Joyce turned back at John and winked. He shrugged an apology. Marcus looked down at her with a stern frown but the ginger wrist tapping his chest was strong enough to dissuade him from further investigation. He already had a vague idea of what happened anyway. What he really wanted to know, he couldn't get. Marcus looked over at Lopo. Not yet.

"Don't think this changes anything," he suddenly growled as Joyce turned him around and pushed him out onto the veranda. "I still expect to see you at commencement tomorrow."

John leaned to the side to look out the door as Joyce began to slide it shut.

"Arrive one hour early. Yes, Sensei!" he called back.

The nurse pointed a stern finger at him.

"You. Bed. Now," she demanded.

John quickly flicked off the light without another peep. Joyce closed the door and then turned to Marcus. "And you," she added. "Don't you have other students to tend too?"

Marcus grunted. Not only students but everything in the high heavens and below required his attention as of late. Handling this late night escapade was just one minor infraction upon the list of things he needed to get done before morning. Many preparations were still needed for the ceremony and the looming flood of trainers waiting to challenge him would no doubt keep him, and Joyce, busy for days to come. Then, he still needed to catch up on the thousands of other bits and pieces that made up the life of a husband, dojo master, and gym leader returning from sabbatical.

Joyce came up behind Marcus and pressed a hand into his back. The pressure kept his feet moving along the veranda. They walked quietly across the dojo, Joyce moving closer and closer to his back with every inch. The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Their foot falls, although soft rustles against the quiet of the night, clanged in their ears. It went without saying that things could have played out much differently. One twist, a single misstep, or even a glance in the wrong direction in a match could lead to irrevocable repercussions.

They weren't supposed to play favorites. As a teacher and a nurse, it went against their training, and yet here they were, thinking more and more about their long and lanky student the farther they grew from him.

"I should throw the both of you on the mat," Joyce informed with a sturdy poke in Marcus' back. "You're too rough with him."

What she meant to say was: John never gives up, even when he's past his limits, and you encourage him too much.

"He'll be fine," Marcus answered. And he was sure of it. Joyce's break through physical therapy and rehabilitation techniques saved him from becoming a cripple on more than one occasion. She could eye up an injury as fast as he could throw a punch and she patched up John enough times to know every freckle and scar on his body.

"A healing touch is a powerful touch," Marcus quoted from one of his life lessons, in an attempt to divert from the subject. "I learned that one after meeting you."

Joyce pursed her lips in a smile. She would neither deny nor accept the comment. Humility was a nurse's secret weapon. That, and having a stomach stronger than any fighter's fist. She traced a nail around her husband's scapula.

"Why then," Joyce continued, slowly and thoughtfully. "Am I going to break a finger against your back?" She pressed her point into his muscles again.

Marcus sighed. Despite what he said, his body betrayed him. One poke and Joyce could read the tension in his back better than a picture book. Unexpected summons, daring requests, and sudden revelations flowed freely through the dojo. The two had long since come to expect them. Marcus came home with pokemon, bruises, and new students all the time. Hearing that a wall had been blown out or that a roof needed replacing fit as neatly into place as the electric bill. Joyce wasn't concerned with a flashy fire fight. What bothered her was the stiffness of her husband's frown when he came across something that not even his simplistic life could understand.

"What's wrong?" Joyce asked. To treat, she required symptoms.

Marcus stopped and looked back at the dorms, forcing Joyce to press into him. She followed the wrinkles streaking away from his eyes to the dormitories. If it wasn't John's health he was concerned with, then it had to be the only other thing they left behind in the room: Lopo.

"You can't be mad at him," she said. "Ditch made worse messes before, and for things much more trivial than the safety of a friend. Lopo watched John grow up. They have a history together and a strong one to boot. It's only natural he would jump into a fight to protect him. He's one tough pokemon."

"And that's what worries me."

Joyce ran her hand down Marcus arm. The muscles were tight and blood swelled in his veins. Her fingers traced them down to a clenched fist. He was stressed, hesitant to continue moving on. She quickly glanced up again with a sudden realization.

"You don't want to leave them alone together," Joyce whispered. Marcus glanced down at her and worked a tick in his jaw. It pained him to admit it, that he didn't trust the two together and it wasn't because of the hole in the wall or a few singed roof tiles. The worst part about the feeling was, he didn't have any proof to explain the unease in his gut.

"Like you said, our boy will be alright," Joyce quickly reassured. It had been a long time since Marcus developed such a protective instinct over one of his students. She met Lopo before with Aria during their matches at the gym, and without evidence, everything she knew the houndoom to be outweighed any jealous itch the master was scratching. "John's tougher than he looks," she finally said. "After all, he's brave enough to indulge you at practice."

A feat worthy in of itself to earn a Mountainside badge. Marcus nodded but kept his eye on the dark shadow that had slipped into John's door. Everything Joyce said was right. Everything he knew about the fire canine told him that there was no better protector, and yet, the memory of Lopo standing beside John on the porch between flame and fist, when his eyes flashed with a dead silver green, still stared him square in the eye. Marcus relaxed his jaw and let Joyce once again push him towards the main house. After all, wherever there was a pokemon, a Ranger was never far behind.

Maybe he was just overthinking it.


	4. Homecoming Arc: 4

**Homecoming: 4**

John looked across the room seemingly at nothing until Lopo shifted his attention towards him. The top of his horns caught the distant starlight, turning the rays from a silver gleam to a pale gray glow as they arched down the edge of his horns onto the bridge of his muzzle. The two stared at one another. The houndoom was invisible aside from the shine of his shadowy helmet but no doubt watching the trainer's every move with the casual patience of a Persian. And move John intended. Despite Joyce's threats, this late night conundrum needed answers and he wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise.

The two knew each other since the beginning. Lopo was the pokemon of a family friend, but when that friend was practically family, than so was her pokemon. Finding a memory _without_ the houndoom was like finding a pinecone in a leaf pile, unexpected and relatively uncomfortable. John preferred the ones that bubbled up from the mind like a straw in chocolate milk.

The best of those bubbles being the countless miles John rode upon the dark pokemon's back as a child. And if he wasn't riding the houndoom, it was an arcanine, or any other pokemon close enough to mount, willing or not. Marcus blamed all of that riding on John's physical weakness, but the young trainer would rather trade both of his legs than give up those wild mountain hunts. And here they were, on another hunt, but this time, John wasn't sure what it was they were after. Despite his attachment to Lopo, the houndoom wasn't his:

He belonged to Aria.

Was she here in Cork City? Did she know about commencement and planned to surprise him? John had so much to say to her, so much to show her. Just wait until she took a long hard look at him and his pokemon. He could hear her now: "Growing like the oaks or the hickories?" she would always ask after a long visit. "Neither," he always answered, "I take after the mountain." At that, her eyes would spark in a flicker of color and she would grin until the look bore John down into a hug. Only now, he finally had proof to his claim.

John looked away and put his ear close to the door. Before he blatantly defied his master's wishes, he would make sure the coast was clear. There were no whispers of hushed conversations or taps of toes along the veranda. Marcus and Joyce left the dormitories. There was a chance they could double back, but with commencement tomorrow, it was unlikely. Now, he could properly complete his reunion without interruption. John crawled away from the door to the dusty pokegear thrown into the corner of his bedroom cubby. Having memorized the threads of his matt, he found his way without the help of a light. Lopo didn't even have to uncross his paws as the trainer maneuvered around him and unzipped the bag.

A little rummaging produced a cellphone. John pressed the button on the back but it didn't turn on. He tried another and still, no luck. John held up the phone and caught a feint trace of starlight through the upper reaches of his narrow ceiling window. The glass screen remained as bleak as his expression. Its display was shattered, splintered in a spectacular display of precision from a _karate chop_ earlier in the year. Ditch, the primeape, shared his trainer's enthusiasm when it came to technology. Checking his inbox was out of the question. Not a smack, let alone a tap, would ever revive that phone again.

The only way to check in with Aria now was the payphone in town. He'd have to travel outside the compound down the street all the way to the convenience store without being noticed by a single sensei or student. Making a phone call wouldn't be this hard if Marcus allowed modern amenities in the compound. But then again, if it was easy, it wouldn't be this fun. John led Lopo out of the room and closed the door as quietly as he could behind him. They slowly made their way along the veranda, through the gardens, and around the main house. Something creaked.

John flattened against the wall, Joyce's threats echoing in his head. Going out now would only instill her fully legal but painful wrath. He didn't know how long he waited. Sneaking out after curfew had the ability to extend 30 seconds to 30 minutes between heartbeats. Anticipation was a nasty double edged sword. It didn't help that Sensei's pokemon were known to perch themselves in precarious places, watching over the dojo grounds better than gargoyles. Having offended several this evening, any such encounter would be less than pleasing.

John looked down at Lopo. The canine stood beside him, staring off into the garden without an end to his gaze. They were well hidden by the shadows of the power outage. And since the cleanup efforts of the Tweedles weren't nearly as effective as his own, there was little risk they would stumble across them but Lopo didn't care for speculation. He trotted out into the darkness, and with an abrupt exhale, spooked the hoothoot watching them from the red maple. It fluttered off less than silently. The houndoom then looked back at John. No one else would disturb them tonight. John was sure of it.

The two made it through the compound unhindered. They walked freely, side by side around the last garden and through the double wide front gate. There were never any guards posted on the walls or entrances. They didn't need any when trainers, ruffians, and all manner of unsuitable spectators avoided the gym like the smell of lime sulfur. Many believed that the dojo acted like a ward, keeping the mountain and city clean of bad spirits because of its balance with the world of pokemon, nature, and man. "Too much discipline and sweat for the weak minded and faint of heart," Sensei liked to say. Sometimes, it was just because of the sweat.

Besides, Marcus never forced any of his students to stay at the dojo. If the unworthy wanted to sneak out and run away in the middle of the night, he wasn't going to stop them. The fear instilled by the gym's leader was the best guardian Cork City could ever create.

John adjusted the pokegear slung over his shoulder and glanced down the dirt road leading into town. There were no street lights. The quaint little city had adopted the naturalistic lifestyle of the gym with brick buildings made from local clay and natural worn paths. There were only sparse lantern lights in certain social or convenient hot spots, softly flowing from one spot to another. John smiled at the beacons of civilization. He looked down at Lopo standing at hip height beside him.

"Alright, boy, let's go," he said.

The houndoom kept his gaze forward.

"Lead the way," John continued.

The fire canine caught a scent in the air and slightly turned up his nose but quickly lost interest and brought it back down again. Odd, that prompt usually worked. Without any sense of doom, danger, or destruction emitting from the dark pokemon, John shrugged it off.

"Alright then, follow me," he said.

They started down the path, Lopo following one step behind. John turned a curious eye to the canine. Back at home, he never played the alpha. At work, for fun, or running an errand, the young trainer always followed the lead of the ones who knew the mountain best: Aria and her pokemon. But then again, this wasn't the Valic Mountain Range. These were the Champagne Mountains. After living here for two years, harassing town's people with team exercises and traversing every aspect of the city in one life lesson after another, John could proudly say that this was his city. He lifted his chin, puffed out his chest, and took the lead.

The path ended at the local convenience store that also served as a grocery market and hardware store. A closed sign dangled in the window. The town had an early curfew to match the schedule of the gym but the payphone and pokeoutlet stationed out front was 24 hours. It was a worthy investment when most technology was banned, broken, or battery dead within the first 12 hours of arrival. John set his pokegear on the ground next to the payphone. He unzipped the gear built into the bag, plugged in the charger, and inserted his registration pack into the port. The system blinked alive with several groans and ticks.

When it successfully hummed into a steady state, John used the touch screen display to bypass the home screen. A dialog box popped up. He punched in his password: "BellSprout42" and pulled up his account. Every setting was how he left it two years ago, all except one. John leaned in a little closer to the screen with a pinch of his eyes. There were two more zeros in his bank account than he remembered. He quickly looked over his shoulder as if an answer was waiting there. It had to be a mistake.

The only payment John received for all of his toil and hard work the last two years was three square meals a day and a roof over his head. The convenience store sold lottery tickets but he was more likely to scratch his skin than any mega millions. An error at the bank, perhaps? He'd have to call in the morning but, right now, there were more pressing matters to attend to. John picked up the telephone receiver built into the side of the outlet. He scrolled through his contacts. Muscle memory landed him on Aria's number. One tap activated the call.

Without the ability to video chat, the dial screen enlarged with her designated icon. The picture was a memento from the Blue Sapphire's ace trainer days. It featured Aria in an underwater photograph hugging her tentacruel, Styx, when she took part in the North White Fantasy Tournament 15 years ago. John smiled at the memory. Just how close was he to following in her footsteps? Leagues, probably, but at least he finally managed to land a gym badge in one. The dial tone rang. John swayed lightly with each unanswered ring. He glanced at Lopo before the voice message system beeped on.

"Hey, Aria, it's Johnny," he began. "You'll never believe it but I did it. I earned a Mountainside gym badge! Marcus told me himself just earlier tonight, although it's probably not much of a surprise considering you were the one who had me believing I'd get one before I even left Boulder, _heh_ , but anyway, Lopo's here. Commencement's tomorrow and I can't wait to see you. The gate will be open so just come on in, but you already knew that since Sebastian was the one to knock it off its hinges in the first place. Makes me think about him every time I look at it. I bet it's the same for Sensei! Sorry, I know it's late and I'm rambling again but I love you, miss you like crazy, and can't wait to see you tomorrow! Call me, wait my phone is brok-!"

John couldn't squeeze in the last exclamation before the ending blip. Oh, well. She'd get the picture. He hovered the receiver over his ear and cleared the electronic display. Aria never picked up on the first try anyway. She was terrible about keeping her phone on her, and whenever she did, it either dropped in a river, down the face of a cliff, or was burned and/or crushed by the limbs of her pokemon. The cost of replacing it all the time wasn't worth the effort and the reception in Boulder was practically nonexistent anyway. Maybe that's where he picked up the bad habit?

John accepted the enlightenment with a shrug and swiped over to his parent's home number. As the call dialed, another picture expanded across the screen. It was a snapshot of his parents at the Boulder Pokemon Festival two years ago before he went off to train at the dojo. They both carried armfuls of vendor prizes, having mastered the trickery of carnival games long ago. They taught him everything he knew. This time, a person on the other line picked up.

"Hello?" they curiously asked.

"Hey, dad," John chuckled. It was never in rural folk to deny a phone call even if they didn't recognize the number. "It's me. I'm sorry it's late but we just came down from the mountain yesterday, and technically we're not supposed to use anything with a plug until after commencement tomorrow, but I had to sneak out to call you."

"It's good to hear from you. Wait, you're not going to get in trouble for that, are you?" his father suddenly asked over the line.

"Of course not, I've got . . . a bit of a special circumstance."

"Is that John?" his mother echoed in the background. "Let me talk to him!"

"Give the boy a chance to speak, Gladys, for heaven's sake."

"Give me that. I need to talk to him," she demanded.

". . . I don't think _this_ is the time to rush into things. This is the first time we've talked to him in months," his father suddenly said.

"You let me talk to my son Joseph or so help me-" The receiver scratched as it passed between hands. "John?"

"Hi mom," John answered with a twirl of the cord around his finger.

"Oh, it's so good to hear your voice," Gladys sighed. Her tone suddenly perked with the same concern as her husband's. "You're not hurt are you? Oh Lord, the last time you called it was a broken hip."

"I'm sure it wasn't that dramatic," John added with a rub of his ribs. "But don't worry, I've still got all my parts, although, there might be some assembly required."

"John!"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! I do have a ton of stories to tell you though, but first, you guys took me completely by surprise."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't tell me you were coming to Cork City for commencement. Where are you staying? Are you here yet or are you coming in the morning?"

"What?"

"You should have told me earlier and I could've gotten you a great room at the B&B. It's probably packed now. All five rooms of it, _ha!_ "

There was a distance on the other line as Joseph took the phone back into his possession.

" _Whoah_ , slow down there son. What're you talking about?"

"I'm sorry, it's just, there's so much to tell you! I've changed so much, Charles too. Lularoo's doing fine although she doesn't care for the slopes, Marco evolved, Lopo showed up, and we're even up for a badge, can you believe it?"

". . . Lopo's _there_?"

"Yeah, he showed up out of the blue about an hour or two ago. Scared the hell outta me and some of the other students."

"My, God . . . He's still alive then? I can't believe it. He did it."

John's chuckle shortened.

"Of course he is. Houndoom can live a long time. He's old but not that old, am I right?"

There was silence on the other line, one heavy enough to quiet John completely. It weighed his gaze down to the canine beside him. True, Lopo looked thinner. His horns had shredded his hands when he touched them. You could see the knobby ridge of his spine against his fur. . . John quickly looked up and pulled the cord from his finger with a silent twang.

"Dad, what happened?" he demanded.

More silence. Was it because of hesitation or distraction? Gladys took the phone again. This time, Joseph didn't protest.

"Honey," she said, her voice much softer, or rather, weaker, than before. "Maybe you should come home for a while."

A pit sank long and deep into John's stomach. He held the phone with both hands.

"Mom?" he asked again.

". . ."

"Please."

". . . I-I don't know where to start . . ." she began and yet a flood of words suddenly poured out. "There was the fire and the flood. It was chaos, worst Boulder had ever seen -,"

"What?" John interrupted, the question sharp enough to cut off the excess chatter.

"I don't like keeping things from you. We never meant to. We tried reaching out but we were cut off for several weeks without power-

"Mom, mom! Slow down. You're not making any sense."

Gladys jumped back to the start of the cascade to bring reason back into her words.

"Lopo's been missing for a while now. He left Boulder almost two months ago," she said.

"Two months?" John looked back at the houndoom. No wonder he was in such rough shape. "But why in the world would he leave the Outpost?"

"We didn't know at first but – I guess . . . it was to find you."

John stepped closer to the screen as if its light could warm his blood. His eyes darted to and fro, looking for the answer his mother refused to give him.

"But why travel across the entire region just to find me? Aria could have sent word."

"Well, she-uh, it's-"

"For Christ's sake, Gladys, just tell him already. You're the one who wanted to," Joseph echoed in the background. His mother put the receiver on her shoulder, muffling the voices under the rustle of clothing but the conversation between them on the other line continued.

" _He needs to know_ . . . but it's been so long. _He deserves to_ _know. We never should have kept it to ourselves._ Are you sure? _No more waiting_."

"Waiting for what?" John quickly interjected. "What is it!?"

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. There was a sigh on the other end: a deep set, long thought out exhale of dreaded inevitability. Gladys took the receiver again. Her voice was clear.

"Honey," she quietly began. "Lopo went to find you because he's yours. Aria left him to you . . . in her will."

The fingers around the phone became a cold white against the black plastic.

"Johnny . . . Aria passed away three months ago."

Silence picked up both ends of the conversation. The clatter of the receiver as it slipped out of John's hands followed. It swung down and clacked against the post holding up the outlet.

"John?" a muffled voice called through the dangling end. "John, are you still there?"

The trainer fell to his knees. His wide leaf litter colored eyes bore so deep into the ground that he couldn't hear the voice even as it bounced against his shoulder.

"We wanted to tell you sooner but you were at that special camp thing when it happened," the voice continued, growing more and more distant with each syllable. "There was no way to get in contact with you. Not even with messenger pokemon, and we were cut off from the station in Riverwood for weeks. So much time had passed that we decided to tell you when you were ready to come home. I'm sorry. We thought it would make it easier but we were only thinking about ourselves. I'm so sorry!"

There was no reply, only memories that streamed across John's eyes as fast as the tears down his cheeks. He saw a teacher cautiously showing him how to hold an ekans, an older sister who stuck up her chin at every woman who refused his Valentine's Day chocolates, and then, there was the best friend who taught him how to read constellations on the top of a mountain.

There was no way it was true. It was impossible.

John slowly turned his head to the side. Lopo stood there, staring at him even though he just spent the past two months searching an entire region for him. There was nothing but darkness in that shadowed black gaze, a void dark enough to consume the canine's fiery inheritance. There was no more light, no life, because his trainer was no more.

John rubbed the heel of his palms into his eyes and cried.

Black was the houndoom's soul. Black as the future of his master.

The one and only, Aria Wicket, was dead.


	5. Homecoming Arc: 5

**Homecoming: 5**

At 600 lbs. and 7 ½ feet tall, Porthos, the hariyama, knew he was big. Concrete and rebar reinforced the dojo floors. Metal joints seamed the wooden panels of the veranda porches to their foundation pillars. Even the traditional orange plated skirt around his waist was stiffer than the legs of most men, but it was the hands that made a hariyama. Porthos included. He chopped timber, broke iron, and bent steel. His hands built walls, held up houses, and potentially decapitate if it wasn't for his pleasant disposition. But those thick rigid calloused hands had never felt so large and empty, until now.

Porthos looked down at the white gi carefully folded in his hands. The embroidered Cork City Gym emblem stared up at him. He spent an hour and a half scrubbing, washing, and cleaning that fabric until every last stain broke loose. The collar wasn't perfect but it was the best he could do when the wearer found himself at the wrong end of a grapple 90% of the time. The fibers were smooth where the countless fingers had thrown his dignity into the mat over and over, and over, again. The hariyama spent two hours stitching up the ripped, torn, and broken seams. Both pant and jacket were piled into his hands in a perfect square. When he held the image of the student who wore them like this, the student seemed even smaller, more fragile, than usual.

Porthos took a deep breath. It made room for the tears welling in his eyes. He looked up from the image in his hands to its reflection standing in front of him. John slid the door to his room shut, wearing the street clothes he arrived in two years ago. They were tighter than the trainer remembered but they would have to do. Cork City didn't have a clothing store let alone a shopping district. John slung his pokegear over one shoulder. Charles lay draped over the other. Their hazel eyes found the hariyama's. The arm thrust pokemon wrinkled his brow.

"Come on, Porthos, don't look at me like that," John exclaimed. He stepped closer, took the gi from the hariyama's hands, and tucked it into a cream sack on top of his backpack. The arm thrust pokemon chased after it, leaning in and hugging John before the string left his fingers. Charles quickly jumped off of the trainer's shoulder and onto the hariyama's to avoid the crushing expression of favoritism. John grunted a chuckle against the pokemon's belly. He wriggled his wrist in a comforting pat.

"I'll miss you too, but it's not like I won't be back," the trainer said. "I just have some things to take care of back home. It may be a while, but I'm sure we'll see each other again in no time."

Porthos reluctantly stepped back with the wobbling indication of a sniffle. John cracked his back sharply and inhaled heavily to inflate his lungs again. He patted Porthos on the arm.

"Thank you for taking care of me all this time," he said. "Make sure you keep an eye on the others. With me gone, Sensei will have to find new volunteers to test his techniques on."

Porthos nodded but couldn't find it in him to raise his head. Charles rushed down his shoulder and onto the ground where he circled the pair. John adjusted his gear again, held onto the strap, and thrust his lips into a smile.

"I'll see ya' around, Big Guy," he said.

Porthos quickly lifted his head and shuffled closer. His fingers tapped against one another. They tickled a laugh out of the trainer.

"You've got to let me go or I'll miss my bus."

Porthos sagged again, but this time, deep enough to burrow through the grief and pop out on the other side to what made this departure so hard in the first place: inevitability. He slowly lifted an arm and pressed his heavy hand into John's chest. A blue glow hummed along the edges. Heat seeped through the clothes. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath as a _force palm_ filled his chest, rib to rib with a warmth as healing as Joyce's touch. It soaked deep, keeping his entire body warm even when the glow finally retreated. John fluttered his eyes open again and grabbed one of the fingers still pressed against his chest. His hair softly fluttered back into place, the strands accenting the softness of his eyes.

"I'll be back, I promise," he whispered.

Porthos nodded and the orange glove slipped away. John's fingers lingered over the spot. Funny, the pressure still remained. John grabbed the feeling in his fist and held it against his chest. Porthos mimicked the motion by raising a fist to his own heart. This was goodbye. Both dropped their silent salute when the swift paws of a linoone furiously tapped away on the veranda. Charles jumped off of the porch and circled the hariyama several times, flinging sand onto the panels with every brush of his tail. Porthos lifted in a gasp and hurried over to the broom lying against the wall. John quickly bent down while the pokemon's back was turned and Charles jumped onto his knees.

"Nice distraction," he whispered. With another scratch, the young trainer stood up with one last glance at the hariyama busily sweeping the porch, utterly preoccupied with his duties. Porthos would be alright. His grief would pass quickly with the new batch of students about to swagger into the gym and learn the first and foremost life lesson Cork City Dojo had to offer. John tenderly rubbed his ribs with a smile and turned for the path. It would be a lesson they would never forget.

Charles led the way around the main house. John followed. An underlying roar of commotion filled the air: talking, moving, and chattering pokemon, commencement was already in motion. He stopped at the corner and envisioned the ceremony through the lattice walls of the dojo. Sensei's bowling laughter echoed over the walls. Joyce's enthusiastic clapping stirred several lazy spectators off of the veranda to make room for the comings and goings of the crowd. Ditch's eager pacing along the roof rattled the tiles in a downpour of excitement.

Lopo suddenly came up to stand beside John. He flinched lightly in surprised and looked down at the canine. Better not rouse the droves of visitors at the front gate of the gym with another entrance like last night. John patted the houndoom on the head, turned away from the main house, and walked towards one of the side gates. Blooming blackberry bushes thickly shadowed this corner of the compound. Several decades of berry picking pressed and cut the branches into a tunnel, shading John from sunrise as he entered. Lopo kept a pace or two behind him.

Charles rushed away from the thicket to catch up to them. He darted for his usual spot at the trainer's right, but found the houndoom's silent gait blocking the way. This was a new development. The linoone pressed closer to the left, then to the right, and Lopo didn't shift a paw. Charles pulled back and slowed, the back of his trainer farther from him than he would have liked. An opening came along the left with the approach of a missing stone in the path. Unconscious walkers always avoided the gap. Charles sprinted into it, rushing to the front of the train with new zeal until a break in the thicket sharply turned his nose to the side again.

John watched but his thoughts were far from the antics of the linoone. Sandy gravel paths, quiet gurgling water, and a roof made of leaf and timber, John looked up into the arch of the tunnel. Sunrise twinkled between the leaves. Its shadowy flicker an ever present reminder of the world beyond the protective shadow of the mountain, a world that apparently he knew nothing about. Just what exactly was he doing when Aria passed? What had been so important that he could neglect the one and only person who ever filled every need in his life? Hiking, scrubbing floors, chopping wood? All insignificant in comparison.

John wished he could curse himself for being in Cork City, for being away. He wanted so hard to believe that there was something he could have done to prevent this tragedy from happening, and yet, it was Aria herself that pressed him to leave the Outpost. She believed in him more than he did himself. Maybe that's why she encouraged him to leave? She couldn't have known something like this would have happened. Instead, she believed in him so much that he needed to find his own mountain. The Valic Range was hers, and thus, he needed his own. Now, both sides of the map were his. John bowed his head and stopped underneath the archway of the western gate. What he wouldn't do to give them both back to her.

"Breaking before the dawn?" a voice suddenly called out.

John quickly raised his head. Marcus stood outside the gate, hands firmly clasped behind his back, clad in his official black gym leader gi. The color matched the ceremonial headband and belt around his waist. Tatter the sleeves a little and the world had its next gaming pandemic. But then again, Sensei didn't like to play games. John quickly turned to him in proper greeting. He pressed his fist into a hand and bowed.

Tradition demanded as such in the presence of the dojo master in full uniform. Marcus didn't refute the honor of his title. Every Cork City dojo master carved their reputation into the mountain through their teachings, and every reputation came with an honorific nickname. His, the Black Peak. Highest of the mountain, pinnacle of the world below. Long and deep was his shadow across the land, for no matter which way you looked, his presence was set upon the earth.

"Sensei," John exclaimed. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"If that was the case, then you should've thought about that before you became my student," Marcus answered. He walked forward. John only bowed deeper.

"You forgot something," Marcus continued as he pulled something out of his pocket. John lowered his hands. A small box appeared in the gym leader's hand. It was made of unstained wood to show every grain of the tree it had come from. Despite being carved only earlier this year, the box was centuries old, cut from the very same tree that christened the presentation of the very first Mountainside Badge. Marcus ran his fingers over it, his heart starting to feel just as old.

"Commencement isn't just for show," he slowly began. "It marks a new beginning, the next step of this life. At this point, I've taught you everything I can. Until you gain more experience, there's nothing more I can offer you."

"I think the experience I'm about to get could evolve a Rhyhorn," John confessed. Marcus lightly bounced the box in his hand, weighing his understanding of the world within it.

"I never doubted this decision, but when you came to me last night with the news of Aria's passing, I knew that fate had shown her hand."

Marcus stilled his hand and ran his thumb slowly along the edge of the box. John traced the motion with his gaze. Retelling the news was even harder than hearing it the first time, but there was something in the dojo master's reaction that puzzled the young trainer. It was as if he knew all along that something like this would happened, just not when. Instinct or not, both lost a very dear and close friend in a single phone call. Technology sucked.

"It's not as fun without the ceremony," Marcus picked up again. "Beating up all the challengers at the front door is usually a students' favorite rite of passage. But in your case, it's probably better this way." The gym leader presented the box. "Take it."

John looked at it. Everything he had ever wanted was inside of it, and yet, he couldn't seem to lift his arms. Even his lips refused to move, knowing that they would only draw a repeat of the _conversation_ they had last night on the mat. A grin curled into the corner of Marcus' mouth. He shook his head with a laugh.

"In all my years, you're the only person in the entire world who has ever refused this badge," he said. "Even Aria took hers without argument." The leader then gently held the box out a little further. "And that's exactly why you deserve to have it. There will always be somebody better, somebody faster, stronger, and more powerful than you, but know this: the body ages and the mind weakens, but the soul . . ." Marcus carefully placed a flat hand on the center of John's chest. The warmth of Porthos' _force palm_ returned. "Your soul can never be broken. Your spirit is one of the strongest I've ever seen. Trainers come and go, but none of them would be able to beat you in a challenge of the heart. To fight when there is no hope, to continue with no end, to know what it is that you must do when the time is right, that is the true soul of this dojo. And in it, your spirit is that of a champion."

"Funny," John whispered. "That's what Aria used to say."

"And who do you think taught her that?"

John lifted his head. Tears swelled in his eyes and his lips quivered in a smile that not even Marcus had the strength to match. The trainer bowed his head again, leaning forward. Marcus quickly shifted his hand into the trainer's shoulder to keep him from falling.

"Now, you listen to me," he whispered with a firm shake hard enough to lift his student's watery gaze. "You take this, and you show Aria the kind of trainer you've become."

Marcus held up the box again. John looked at it, sniffled, and took it in his grasp. Marcus removed his hand, and with it, some of the burden on the young trainer's shoulders. John slowly lifted the lid. A freshly pressed and polished Cork City gym badge glittered from its seat on the velvet cushion. Five small ovals punched out a dark blue imprint of a fist in the silver base. The edges flashed white in the light, mimicking the royalty of a king's ring or the coils of a set of steel knuckles, depending on what you wanted. Simple. Basic and as strong as the granite of the mountain. John's chest expanded with a slow and thoughtful inhale. He held the breath at its peak and looked up at Marcus. The gym leader chuckled out his approval, lightly growling at the end in a manly purr of pride.

"With that look in ur eye, I'm sure you already know, but I'll tell ya anyway. Be careful out there-

-and make sure to give trouble some trouble," John finished.

Marcus raised himself in pride and placed a fist into the flat of his hand. John quickly mirrored the stance with a shuffle of his feet. They bowed to one another, taking one last look before Charles ran across Marcus' feet one last time for good measure. The gym leader danced with a curse but the linoone took off down the road before more could be said.

"Charles!" John quickly yelled after him. "What did I tell you about that?"

The trainer trotted down the road with a whistle that brought the rushing pokemon back to attention. Marcus sighed and glanced down at Lopo. At least one of them had the sense not to rush off after every dandelion and dewdrop.

"I trust you'll take care of the whelp in my absence," he said.

The houndoom glanced away with a flick of his tail. Marcus grunted and shook his head as the fire canine trotted off after John and Charles. The trio would be missed, but everything the young trainer missed in the outside world during his training was far more important.

John, Charles, and Lopo made their way along the overgrown path and appeared out of the woods near the main entrance of the gym. A crowd flowed out from the gate, tapering off further down the road. Commencement was one of the biggest days of the year, not only for the gym students, but for Cork City. People swarmed the city, boosting the local economy to peak business. Family and friends buzzed around the bed and breakfast. Challengers set themselves a place in line, waiting for their chance to challenge the gym leader to a badge match.

Spectators crowded around their showboating. Locals placed bets on the duration of the badge matches. Few ventured beyond five minutes. Hot headed aces and the occasional long winded sponsor often lost more than money in those gambles. But every Cork City veteran knew where the most excitement swelled, and that was in the preliminary matches. Before an outsider even attempted to conquer the Black Peak, they had to climb the shadow of his mountain. Badge or no badge, the disciples of the dojo thinned out the herd. If an outsider defeated enough students, they won the chance to battle the gym leader himself.

At the gate, prior disciple Fuller worked crowd control, pointing out the makeshift battlefield cleared out on the side of the road for any trainer unwilling to contain their excitement until their turn in line. In it, Manchez scrapped his bare feet across the dirt in his usual pre-battle ritual. Another match was about to take place. Around it, trainers excitedly exchanged strategies, boasted of their previous winnings, and took every opportunity to show off their pokemon. A few overzealous individuals threatened to do battle at the foot of the gate. Fuller jumped down from his post, only too eager to give them first-hand experience of the law of the land.

Several eyes drifted John's way. They examined the houndoom and linoone at his sides, debating whether he was a student to challenge or another anxious trainer like themselves coming to join the parade. It was a challenge he would have liked to face: batting away unworthy trainers in the name of his Sensei, but right now, he couldn't afford the delay. John withdrew Charles into his pokeball mid dash. He fumbled with the clasp on his belt until his fingers remembered the motion. With Charles in place, his hand drifted to the empty slot beside it. As if pulling a string, John's eyes drifted over to Lopo at the same time.

That was right. The houndoom didn't have a pokeball to go with him. Knowing Aria, she probably had the original ball destroyed. Free roaming pokemon were her specialty, but then again, pokeballs were a must in modern day society. He'd have to get a new one. The fire canine kept his eyes on a kangaskhan drawing just a little too much attention. Maybe sooner was better than later.

"Let's stop by the general store and get you a pokeball before we leave," John exclaimed with a scratch of Lopo's neck. He turned for the hilly slope nearby to bypass the crowd and any possible confrontation. Lopo kept his eyes on Kangaskhan now that its trainer had spotted him. They turned in their direction. The houndoom's head dropped. His tail slowed into a countdown.

"Oh! _Geez_ -,"Off to the side, John suddenly slipped on some broken stone. The top half of his body jerked out of view with the instability. Lopo glanced over at him, gave Kangaskhan another swish of the tail, and trotted away towards the slope. He stopped at the top, judging the distance before hopping onto a series of boulders that brought him to John's side. The trainer automatically grabbed a horn for balance. Together, they traveled down the slope and into town, staying to the back of the shops to avoid the prying eyes of the public. With a _ding_ of the entryway bell, John poked his head inside the convenience store. It was empty. Later in the day, customers would flock to the counters for revives and full restores when their patience and dignity was spent.

John opened the door. Lopo trotted to the forefront with his nose in the air. Potions and medical tape displays greeted them. Farther in, management housed the pokeballs in a glass counter case under the cash register. Five were on display. John squatted down to view the face of each one: classic, great, friend, and level. He drummed his fingers against the glass.

"So what'dya think?" John asked with a glance over his shoulder. Lopo offered no insight. Instead, he nudged his way into a shelf filled with pokemon treats. Several boxes toppled to the floor. "Lopo!" John harshly whispered as he scuttled over and snatched up the boxes. At the retrieval of the last one, Lopo whined, and for a moment, John thought he had neglected a wet kitten in a trash can. He looked up. Lopo lowered his head, wagged the tip of his tail, and nudged the trainer's hand with another whine. John smiled with a scoff of a laugh. So needy. So . . . John lost his humor in the houndoom's eyes. In his youth, he remembered sacrificing several school lunches to the persistent stares of a fire canine, but never had they been anything but from hopeful inquisition. But this . . .

This was begging.

John clenched the cardboard box. It bent underneath his hand and treats never came from a fist. Lopo lifted his head and looked away, disinterested now that he knew nothing was coming his way. Cool, calculated, and powerful, he needn't bother with a useless effort. Shock widened John's eyes. Lopo turned away from the shelf and stood there, resting his gaze on the door until he was summoned again.

John watched him, glanced down at the shelf, and lunged for several items. He hobbled over to the register and dumped the load on the counter, catching several items before they fell to the floor. Four cans of 100% protein clacked against the glass. They barricaded two jerky packs from contaminating the mixed treat pouches. A bag of kibble, three water bottles, and a couple of odds and ends littered the sides. It should be enough to get them through to the next stop, or rather, satisfy the trainer's guilt as much as the houndoom's hunger. John grabbed his pokegear, found his wallet, and pulled out his coin card. Another pang went through his gut.

Free room and board at the price of hard labor made life simpler, so simple, that it was easy to forget that the rest of the world didn't run on blood and spirit. Aria knew that. That's why she left him an inheritance, because even in death, she was still watching out for him. John closed his eyes with a sigh. He'd give it all back if he could. Every coin. But as a gift from a friend, it couldn't be refused. Believing his sudden wealth, however, was another story. Two digits. Two whole extra digits in John's bank account and he jumped up a social class. Clearly, Aria's ace trainer days benefitted her in ways she never expressed, or at least, not to him. Being the doting favorite of one of the most influential, powerful, and wealthy men in the region also helped.

All John knew about Aria's financials growing up was that her fire canines were the epitome of hellfire when angered, and her aggron; their Satan, leaving one helluva mess whenever she went into town. Fixing it up all the time came with a price tag. But then again, ashes were one of the best fertilizers in the world.

"Not lamenting over the venomoth in your wallet again, are you?" a voice said from behind the counter. A young man, built with a history of living in the shadow of Cork City's Gym, came around the corner. He tied his apron into place. "Don't worry, I've got some shelves that could use that height of yours if you're looking for a little coin." He stopped in front of the checkout pile and scanned the items faster than his price tagger. "Geez, are you going on a journey or wha- _oh shit_!"

Lopo came up to the counter and stuck his head over the glass, causing Bobby, the clerk, to jump back, hitting the shelf behind him. Several cartons fell on his head and clattered to the floor. John snorted back a laugh.

"What the hell is that and how'd it get in here?!" Bobby cursed.

" _That_ is a houndoom and _his_ name is Lopo," John explained.

Bobby brushed off his apron with a blush of embarrassment. Changing the topic was the best way to avoid it with men. "How the hell did you manage to catch a pokemon like that?" he asked.

"Technically, I haven't caught him yet," John corrected.

Bobby froze again, this time, with enough terror to instill a guilt trip. John cleared his throat and tapped the glass motioning to the pokeballs underneath.

"That's what I'm here for," he explained.

Bobby glanced from trainer to pokemon. Trusting the counter between them to hold John's word, he picked up the cartons, set them back on the shelf, and properly arranged the pile for checkout. "That's a pretty well behaved wild pokemon for no signature obligation," he stated. An uneasy eye drifted to the dark pokemon now focused on the items scrolling through his very precious, and needed, hands.

"He's not wild," John sharply informed. The words stung his lips, making them tender and the words that followed much softer. "I inherited him from a friend. We've known each other for a long time."

"So he's pretty harmless then?"

"No, not really."

A jerky treat blipped against the scanner instead of Bobby's heartbeat. John quickly dropped down into another squat to avoid the silence that followed. Five choices. Five different ways to declare a relationship. What was the proper choice for a situation like this? Did John follow tradition and go with the same classic style Aria used? Would that bring up bad memories with every release? John looked at the great ball. Considering Lopo just traveled across the entire region of Valenis to find him because of his late master's wishes, they probably didn't need a ball with a high catch rate. God only knew what Lopo's actual level was.

What about a friend ball? No. It was a business ploy to think that a machine could magically increase the friendship between a pokemon and its trainer but the color of the ball was catching. A deep rich green soaked the top half of the shell. If it hit the light, it would shimmer, making a wonderful canopy to a silvery white bottom. The color not quite metallic, not quite rocky, but rather, it had the glisten of a collection of minerals trying to crystalize around the pokemon inside. It reminded John of home: The shade of the Valic Mountain Range on top and the foundations of the Champagne Mountains on the bottom. A region apart but nearly one in the same in his heart. It was perfect. John stood up with a proud point of the glass.

"We'll take this one," he announced.

Bobby was only too happen to fill the order. And no sooner did he fill the bags did John empty them again. He tossed two empty tin cans in the waste bin, crumbled down a half-eaten bag of kibble, and glanced to the houndoom nudging the small travel food bowl across the gravel. It clattered and tapped against the bridge of the canine's nose with every lick, savoring the remains of the semi moist mixture. Lopo inhaled the first helping, devoured the second, and licked up a third. John was afraid to give him a fourth.

Granted, the bowl was meant for pokemon three times smaller than the canine but the feral lust for satisfaction licking its chops beside him set the trainer's own stomach ill for days. They stood by the back door of the convenience store. Lopo refused to eat in the bright sunny side entrance. John didn't blame him. Besides, the store was catching more customers now that trainers had time to run through a few battles up at the gym. The clatter of the pan quieted as Lopo lifted his head and slid his tongue down both sides of his mouth. John shoved the bag under his armpit and picked up the bowl. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it came out of the dishwasher.

"Hey, John, I thought that was you," a voice called out from the light. Boy, did he really have to start paying attention to his surroundings. John and Lopo turned to one of the locals stacking some wood into the bed of his lumber truck nearby. When one lived on a mountain in a town filled with aspiring martial artists using it as a training ground, business was good.

"Off for a delivery?" John asked.

"Yea, it's starting to get a little too crowded around here for me. I specifically moved to the mountains to avoid other people," the lumberman answered. "What about you? Heading home?"

It wasn't hard to guess John's intentions when all he wore was a gi, casual robes, and the occasional set of sandals for the past two years. Red flannel and blue jeans were a dead giveaway. John shifted the gear on his back uncomfortably, its buckle suddenly digging into his shoulders. Luckily, the woodsman knew not everybody made it to commencement, and considering the three other students that left last night in a huff, (badge-less and bruised), he had the sensitivity not to pry.

"I'm heading to Oakbrook. Do you need a ride to the train station?" the lumberman continued. "I don't have room in the front but if you don't mind a breeze, you and your friend there can hitch a ride in the back."

Skipping hours of hiking for a trip three months too late?

"We'll take it," John quickly answered. He stuffed the rest of the kibble in his pack and jogged over with Lopo in tow, the canine's gait somewhat heavier than before. One hop set John on the tailgate. Lopo jumped up into the bed of the truck without a prompt. He sniffed the wood pile neatly stacked at their backs. Used to the scent, he circled around and laid down on a meager portion of leftover straw from an earlier delivery. John slapped the side of the truck and it started with a rumble. The two swung lightly as they pulled out of the lot. Traveling by car cut out several hours of foot travel and it was probably a good thing.

John glanced over at Lopo. In the growing light, one could finally make out his features. Silver gleamed across the canine's lips. A gaunt shine highlighted the top of his cheeks, the shadow of his species had permanently imprinted the makings of a skeleton in his skin. He dozed lightly. His eyes struggled to stay open under the rumble of the car ride and a full belly. Every bump swayed the great rack of horns now a burden to hold up. The brighter the day became, the harder it was for Lopo to stay awake.

Working the day shift took a toll on the dark pokemon. That had always been his younger brother's job, but this slow descent back into darkness wasn't because of sleepiness. It was fatigue, the result of a journey of attrition. Nonstop traveling from dusk till dawn. No supplies, medicines, or pokecenters. There were no party pokemon to support him or trainer to guide him, no one but himself to carry the burden Aria had bestowed upon him. Pokeball or not, there was no breaking the obligation sworn to a pokemon ranger. Lopo's metal bracelets jingled with a divot in the road. Cuffs of willing servitude.

John tenderly stroked the canine with his gaze. Matte black fur dully caught his eye. He slowly reached out and touched Lopo's side. Brittle fur scratched his fingers. Tight skin flinched at the stroke. John pulled away, passing his hand against one of Lopo's paws. Sandpaper pads caught the back of his palm. Cracks streaked across the callouses. Raw red skin glistened in the deepest of crevices. The more John looked at Lopo, the less he saw of the houndoom he remembered.

Just how many days did the canine spend without shelter, without safety, trying to find sleep while the rest of the world was awake? Wild pokemon weren't his only threat. The mere passing of the canine's presence chilled hot blooded wild pokemon pride into submission. People were the ones that kept his fire hot and horns sharp, people trying to catch him, defeat him, and drive him away with their ignorant superstitions. The scars and unease back at the dojo, all of it the result of trainers trying every method and madness to control a power beyond their skills. Pursued. Hunted. Chased. Did it end with a mere car ride?

The truck bounced lightly. Lopo blinked a little wider until the moment passed and his eyes shut again. John carefully unfastened the new friend ball from his belt. He enlarged it in one hand. Aria never withdrew her pokemon if she didn't have to. She came to hate the contraption, convenience, and concept of a pokeball. John looked over at Lopo again. The canine succumbed to the weight of his burden and laid his head on his paws. He squeezed the ball a little tighter. Pokeballs might be abused by trainers, but right now, the houndoom needed a quiet uninterrupted rest. John reached out again, hovering the release over Lopo's hip.

With this, there was no going back. Registration would change. Aria's name would be erased. With the single push of a button, Lopo would legally become his pokemon and there would be an obligation beyond free will. John looked into the green and silver shell crisply lined against the black fur of the dark pokemon behind it. He saw the mountains again: Aria's smile and Marcus' grin. With a deep breath, he pushed the release against Lopo's fur, stimulating the capture. The ball popped open. Lopo's body lit up in the energy that made up all parts of the world. Silver at first, quickly streaming into black as the vacuum of matter pulled the energy into the ball. It closed with a snap.

Gears churned with resistance and the ball rumbled. At first, with surprise, then, with fear, and finally, with the realization of what had happened. Lopo relented and the release popped out in finalization. Capture complete. John looked down at the ball and brought it close to his chest. He rocked with the way of the road and glanced up into the Champagne Mountains growing distant in front of him. They would look like the cutout of a post card by the time they arrived in Oakbrook, and then, a second range would rise up from the horizon. Mountains to begin and mountains to end. The climb would be exhausting.

For a moment, John wished he had stuck to traveling by the road now swiftly rushing under his dangling feet. Catching a ride would bring him home faster. But like the pokemon in his hand, the home he was going back to would hardly be the same that he remembered.


	6. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 1A

**A Gift from a Friend: 1A**

John hopped off the tailgate in front of the bus station loading zone. He swung his gear over his shoulder, shook the driver's hand, and found the bustle of the station a distant hum against the swirling thoughts in his mind. From bus to train to track, the tickets weighed nothing in his hands. They slipped out of his grip better than a jumpluff from a field. It was almost as if Aria were guiding him home in that spacey untouchable way that she always did. She always talked about an unseen force, some otherworldly thing that guided her like magnetism on a compass needle. John believed in it simply because, with her, it was real, and thus, must be true. And now, his compass swung to Boulder.

The needle turned heavily. A pillar supporting the foundation of his existence had fallen, but the ones he had created around it, although thinner, shouldered the rest of the burden. The temple of his heart was not empty. Aria was gone but the memory of her life remained and that was in of itself a spectacular relic in his soul. "What ifs" and "if onlys" sparsely rattled against the might of that monument. Doubt and depression lost their will to fight against his soul since it was forged to accept the past, look for the future, and meet destiny head on.

Life lesson#103: Life exists in a constant state of fluctuation. The key: finding the ever changing state of balance within it. If this truly was commencement, then there was no more bitter an irony that the end of John's youngster days started with the death of the person who helped him through it all. Besides, Aria would never truly leave him behind. She would never forget him and John could never forget her because she was there with every pokemon release, withdrawal, capture, and encounter. She was the one who taught him that a life could not be lived without pokemon.

John pulled a pokeball from his belt and popped it open against his hip. A candle light glow illuminated the predawn darkness as a rapidash materialized in the Riverwood Train Station parking lot. With a shake of the head, her flaming mane crackled into a silent ripple. A hoof scuffed the grassy dirt. John rubbed her neck and his face glowed with the light of his pokemon.

"Hey Roo," he cooed, "I'm sorry it's been so long since you've been out."

Aside from traveling three days from Cork City, the fire horse pokemon hadn't been released since before the student's decent down the mountain for commencement. Steep slippery rocky mountain slopes were treacherous for two legs let alone four. Lularoo, the rapidash, tossed her head again. John quickly swung away from the tuft of flame and he rubbed her muzzle with both hands.

"Ready to saddle up?" he whispered.

Lularoo bucked lightly with a nicker.

"Alright, alright, settle down and I'll get you strapped up," John chuckled with a raise of his hands. He pulled her in a little closer and rubbed a hand along her back. A trail of flame followed until her skin cooled again to keep just her mane, tail, and joints at a low simmer. There was just enough light from her flames to guide their way through the predawn darkness without burning the rider. John pulled out a collapsible bit, reins, and saddle from his backpack. They were the only reason he carried gear in the first place. All of it of Aria's own custom design modeled after several trial and error experiments with her own arcanine's riding gear. Travel worthy and light weight, there was just enough pull to let the pokemon know you were still attached. With a snap and a slide, everything was in place. John swung himself up and gave Lularoo another pat.

No more cars, locomotives, or even bicycles from this point on, just open highway and the last leg of a journey home. John looked up at the stars struggling to keep their presence known against the rising day. Their shine lightened the bags under his eyes. No need for a compass now. Those hazy purple constellations pointed towards the little old mountain town of Boulder. It would take a few hours of riding to get there but the rapidash welcomed the chance to stretch her legs. John prompted her down the road with a pat on the neck, causing her ear to flicker like the flames on her head. And soon, both of them glowed in the sunrise that greeted them.

Dawn raced down the highway, filling the pastures and fields with orange, yellow, and gold. Other ponyta grazed in the farm acres that passed beside them. Lularoo turned her eyes to them, they were where she was born after all. John still remembered the stall where Lularoo was born, how the best researchers couldn't figure out why her flames were so small, and the day Aria rode over to the farm on the back of her arcanine to try and figure it out. He just happened to be at the Wicket house that day, the day after, and the day after. Aria took Lularoo into her care. After some fostering from mother Rolo, the rapidash built up her strength to arcanine standards.

John stroked the back of her neck again, letting the friction induced flames die down before starting the subsequent stroke. That was just one more memory that grew brighter the deeper they walked into the shade of the Valic Mountain Range. Darkness never reached the height of those peaks but it had infiltrated its way into town not that long ago. Dark and cold, it pressed a weight upon the locals but it wasn't from the shadow of the mountain. It came from the shadow of a single woman, Aria Wicket. Well, her and her pokemon.

A single lane highway distinguished Boulder from mountains. Just one strip of asphalt isolated an entire mountain range from civilization for years. No one in town would cross it to the sanctuary on the other side, not if they didn't have to, especially when Aria and her pokemon were on the other side. It wasn't until two, maybe three years ago that the town realized there was a hero, not a heretic, on the other side. At that time, a landslide more than 100 years in the making nearly wiped Boulder off of the map. What would have taken an entire disaster relief crew weeks to clean up, Aria and her party pokemon did in days. They single handedly unburied the town while the newscasters were still lost in the wild trying to find the place. Score marks still remained where Sebastian, the aggron, clawed, dug, and pushed his mountain back into place.

It was the best challenge the aggron ever fought.

John wondered what the town was like now that Aria was gone. He cried at the news, but no matter how hard he tried to fling himself into grief, the farthest he ever flew was the length of Aria's smile. Her laughter rang in his ears, especially when he remembered the way her hair always flew out from her shoulders when she thrust herself into a situation no mortal could handle. Together, they were stung, bitten, burned, and bruised a dozen times and yet he couldn't remember a day when she wasn't beautiful. Had the Outpost lost its charm without her? For seventeen years, not a single poacher claimed a life in the sanctuary. There wasn't a pokemon on the mountain without a name. With a tournament trophy, five unofficial gym badges, and the ability to secure the wellbeing of an entire geographic landmark, could the Outpost survive without a pokemon ranger? Aria Wicket wasn't just a hero. She had been John's idol, his inspiration, sister, and friend. And she had waited long enough.

Lularoo stopped in front of the official entrance of the Valic Mountain Conservation Outpost. It was all dirt from here to the Welcome Center. Large boulders speckled the sides of the road. They casually watched travelers with the gentle silence of a rocking chair on a summer night. There were no informational signs or light posts, only trees that hugged the road so tightly that one or two leaned over the path in the hopes of catching a passerby underneath their boughs. Trunks too wide to hug. Branches to sparse to count. Did he shrink or was the forest getting bigger? Either way, John didn't need an arrow to tell him where to go. There weren't any anyway.

Lularoo needed no guide as they climbed higher and deeper into the woods. The trees waved better than a crowd of fans on the debut of a new ace with every step. Soon, the fairy tale cottage of his childhood came into view. Timber replaced gingerbread walls. Hand carved edging frosted the seams. With two company jeeps, one truck, and several ATVs, the Welcome Center came fully decorated, gum drops and all. Aria always had a terrible sweet tooth.

Several upgrades over the years renovated the once elaborate hunting stand into a base of operations that local law enforcement often called upon when dealing with an emergency they weren't equipped to handle. But those who passed through the doors to the Welcome Center never saw it as a base camp, but rather, a lavish treehouse for those too busy with campfires and sleep overs to find their way home. Sometimes, it was just home altogether, and one resident just happened to be in. He stood in the open door of a company jeep. Mud and leaf litter from the most recent dispatch call plastered the sides. The Outpost logo never looked complete without it.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that Johnny Hawkins and his most reliable pony pokemon?" forestry trooper Bernard exclaimed as he tossed his gloves, some bungee cords, and a pair of sunglasses into the seat. "How long it's been? Two years?"

"Too long," John replied. He dismounted Lularoo, walked up to the jeep, and slapped Bernard into a hug. Sap stuck to his fingers, instantly making his skin as fragrant as the trooper's green uniform.

"I heard you were coming back, but weren't you off to become a famous martial artist or something'?"

" _Heh_ , not quite," John chuckled. So that was the most current rumor about him. Not bad for Boulder gossip. John lightly touched his ribs, the ache in his heart outweighing the bruises. "I've come to see Aria."

Slowly and firmly, Bernard lost his smile. He took off the Outpost embroidered baseball cap on his head and rubbed the bill between his hands, not sure if he should return to the first stage of grief in sympathy or stay steady on his path to recovery. John carefully placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Bernard, I know," he said. "I've come to pay my respects."

Some of the trooper's smile returned. John gave him a light shake before he walked over to the hitching post in the front of the Center. Aria commissioned it the moment John snuck his first ride on Lularoo's back. The water trough below the post was clean, clear, and free of algae as usual. Claw marks nicked the edges where wild pokemon snuck in a bath or a drink. John tied the reins to the post. His hand drifted along the boards of the trough as the fire horse bent down for a drink. Several planks were new. Their color bright against the dark stain of old wood.

"I see Rolo's been by," John smiled with a knock of the wood. Many a splinter did he acquire repairing the trough when the arcanine broke the boards so that the cool mountain water ran over his hot feet. Bernard set the hat back on his head. He was only too happy to follow John's prompt.

"Yea, that big ol'oaf stops by every once in a while. On his good days, he'll come down from the high altitudes at night and scare the shit outta whoever's on call. Haven't seen him in a while though. Too hot I suspect. The trip's starting to be a little too much for him."

John stroked Lularoo down her back to feel the warmth of her skin. It reminded him of the fire canine. "And Sebastian?"

"To be honest, no one's seen'em since . . . "

"Since the wild fire?" John picked up.

Bernard nodded. A light scoff slipped from John's smile. He wasn't surprised. The aggron was as reclusive as he was grumpy. Most aggrons, what few there were in the world, spent their lives guarding their territory. Some were lucky enough to have a cave, fewer still a mountain, and only one with an entire range. It was endless work. Good, the iron armor pokemon might just stay preoccupied and keep his eyes off of the rest of the world.

Bernard walked over, leaned against the opposite side of the trough, and crossed his arms over his chest. Having experienced the disaster first hand, the trooper was obliged to continue.

"Aria was the first to discover it," he explained. "Rode in on Rolo with the sweat of a fever about her. We fought it the best we could but it started on the other side of the range. By the time we scrambled together, it already destroyed hundreds of acres. Turned the whole sky brown like muddy water." Bernard ran his hand over his forehead to wipe away the heat he still felt from those flames. "It shifted towards the Sanctuary, and I mean nothin' against you Johnny, but it was probably a good thing you weren't here for it. We thought it was going to be the end."

"Like Aria would ever let that happen," John murmured. Bernard smiled with him.

"You better believe it. Day one, she was fightin' those flames harder than a gym battle. She went straight into'em, and when she heard we were thinking about evacuation, there was no way we could catch her. Nobody thought anything of it since she did that sort of thing with the rescue crews all the time, even before that, a pistol that one."

"A Ranger," John corrected.

Bernard bowed his head with the weight of his smile. They both looked to Lularoo in the silence before Bernard found the heart to continue his story again.

"The winds picked up with an oncoming storm. Came outta nowhere. The flames grew to their highest until the storm actually hit. Rain, wind, hail, it was the wildest nastiest thing I had ever seen in my life. Thought we traded one disaster for another when suddenly, the skies cleared the next morning and we realized that the rains had doused the entire wildfire. We were so busy scrambling to control the chaos with the regional rescue crews that we didn't realize Aria had left sometime during the storm. We figured she was hold up somewhere. We knew she would be fine since her pokemon were with her, but then, that night, Rolo walked up to the house without a rider. . . I think at that point, most of us had a feeling. We knew but didn't say anything outright. None of us wanted to believe it, ya know? She was always off without a word, coming back even more exhilarated and exhausted than before when we least expected it."

"Always a mess and yet somehow you always wished you had gone along too," John picked up.

Bernard laughed. "That's right, even if it meant sticking your hand all the way up the elbow in an ekans burrow!"

The two shared a chuckle.

"But I wouldn't worry about Rolo and Sebastian," Bernard insisted as he remembered his duties and walked back over to the jeep. "I imagine their up on the mountain somewhere watching out for one another. We found a nest with a whole cloud of arcanine hair inside one of Sebastian's favorite caves. And Rolo'll howl for us once in a while. Sets the whole mountain in a chorus whenever he does."

Bernard lowered the tailgate and struggled with a large overstuffed duffel bag. John walked over and tugged it free, picking it up onto his shoulder. Bernard quickly shut the tailgate with the silent exchange of responsibility. Being an outdoor man in profession and pleasure, he preferred not bring up the shortcoming, and instead, continued with his tales. "Plus, Rolo's always been a puppy. He doesn't like to be alone. I can't see him running off wild and free without settling down at night with something strong enough to snuggle and not crush to pieces."

Bernard led the way up the path to the center.

"That sounds like Rolo," John added.

"And speaking of puppies," Bernard pushed open the door with a rattle of the entrance bell and nodded over to the square pillow by the fireplace. "That's Hardy."

A houndour, still short and squat with puppyhood, waddled off of the pillow at the sound of the bell. His boney armor was little more than buds against his potbelly stomach, no doubt the result of every trooper's daily obligation to indulge him with a treat. The weight did little to detour the puppy from wagging his nubby tail. It only added to the allure whenever he rolled into motion.

"Hello, Hardy," John exclaimed as he bent down and scooped up the dark pokemon into his arms with a chin full of kisses.

"He was left to fend for himself in the wake of the fire so we picked him up," Bernard exclaimed. "We plan to place him in a pack when he's a little older."

John lightly tapped the potbelly sticking out from underneath his arm and glanced to the scribbled nameplate hanging over the fireplace pillow. "Of course we are," he whispered into the hatchling's ear.

"There were a lot of pokemon like him after the wildfire. You should have seen the place. It was practically a nursery."

"I can imagine."

John's ears still rang with the shrieking of newborn's waiting their turn at the bottle many a season ago. He adjusted the tootsie roll in his arms and looked around, envisioning the rehabilitation clinic the center was often called to be. Untold numbers of pokemon de-homed from disasters made many sleepless nights and stressful days. In truth, he couldn't gauge the level of chaos from this latest flaming landslide. Aria had always been there in the madness to diagnose every cry, cough, and screech into meaningful torture. This time, she wasn't.

John quickly distracted himself from the thought by looking around the center and its current state. The layout was the same. Topographic, geographic, and roadway maps of the range lined the walls in glass frames. From the original property lines of the Wicket family to every expansion, there wasn't a cliff or valley uncharted. Aria made sure of that. A shelf of Outpost merchandise accented a barrel turned information stand in the middle. At the back, a glass display case of antiques served as a counter. Bernard walked behind it and set his duffel bag on top. He then set his walkie-talkie to charge in the stand next to the others on the shelf behind him. An unconscious flick of the eye checked the keyring to the case of tranquilizer rifles set in the back. Bernard placed a brown paper bag on the counter. The sound alone roused Hardy into a squirm under John's arm. Bernard quickly snatched it away.

"Not this time," he announced. "I'm looking forward to this."

"Come on, not even a nibble?" John asked.

"Nope. No way. I've got to watch my back or that little porkie will dig into the fridge to get the last crumb. One slice of cheese and that ham thinks he's got rights to the whole sandwich. Can't blame him too much for it though. You should've seen'em when he first came in. It's a miracle he even survived, but then again, I saw a lot of things that day I still find hard to believe."

Bernard's smile drifted down again with the thought and his eyes reached far beyond the counter. They reached to a place he could not go.

"You would've been proud a'her, John," he said, the astonishment of that day still strong enough to push a smile out of him despite the heaviness of his tone. "I'd never seen anything quite like it."

"Sounds like a casual day on the mountain for Aria," John gently answered as he set Hardy down on the floor. Bernard nodded.

"You're right about that," he whispered back.

The houndour scuttled around the counter and jumped up onto Bernard's legs. The trooper grunted in annoyance but made no attempt to move him because of the weight of the treat in his pocket. John adjusted his pack with one last glance around the center.

"Are the Wickets home?" he asked.

"They should be," Bernard answered. His hand unconsciously fingered the meaty treat when Hardy obediently sat down beside him. "They'll be happy to see you. I'll give'm a call and let'em know you're coming. You know how Carol likes to entertain. Wanna ride up?"

"Thanks, but Lularoo will get mad if I don't let her make the whole trip," John said. He patted the trooper one last time and turned for the door. Bernard watched with a wink in his eye. The bag that turned to face him was the same bag that John had since high school: torn up, patched up, and not without the marks of a few wild encounters. The set of shoulders they rode on, however, were wider than he remembered.

"Hey, John, before you go,"

The rider turned around. His expression carried the trace of a smile. The light in his eyes filled the maps on the walls with a destination, not just a place. Whether John was stuck in the woods without food, water, shelter, or direction, the boy was never lost. His expression rested on the bright side of every encounter. It was a light that filled the center with a warmth Bernard had not felt since Aria left.

"You stickin' around for a while?" he asked

"Not sure just yet," John admitted.

"Well, if you get bored. We've still got your uniform in the office. Couldn't find anyone as tall and skinny to pick it up just yet."

John smiled and it was enough for Bernard to take the treat out of his pocket without shame.

"Thanks," John said. He nodded one last time to the trooper, opened the door with a jingle, and hopped down the step. As he did, Bernard just realized that the hop was, and always had been, perfectly timed with the ring of the doorbell.


	7. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 1B

**A Gift from a Friend: 1B**

"Come on girl, we've just got a little further to go," John exclaimed as he unhitched Lularoo and walked her back towards the road. The Wicket house was still quite a ways away, but this time, John wanted to feel the mountain underneath his feet. He looked up into the canopy and closed his eyes. Sunlight rippled in a patchwork across his face. "Upwards and onwards", Aria used to say, especially when all she really wanted to do was go back. Deeper they went into the heart of the mountain, catching glimpses of the past with each step. Just to the right, a path led down to a pond. Many summers were cooled in those placid but playful waters. Up ahead, several rocks and boulders formed a pile alongside the road. A large crack split the face of the largest boulder, no doubt from too many games of hide and seek stored inside.

The valley wind streamlined down the road. It flattened Lularoo's mane and rustled John's hair, carrying pidgey to their next stop overhead. When it passed, the rapidash's mane flared even higher. John stroked his hair down with a deep inhale of mountain air so fresh that no living thing had ever breathed it before. Raised in the art of bark, boulders, and branches, it was as if he never left Cork City. Every range was different but every feeling he got from them was the same: a sense of home.

"John? Oh, Johnny! And Lularoo too!"

John opened his eyes with a flutter. Carol Wicket stepped through the screen door and onto the porch of her log cabin home. Several more wrinkles framed her face but they accented the sparkle in her eyes. Her hair, gray as it was, was fashioned in the very same side braid Aria used to wear all the time. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him but only because her smile pushed her cheeks up so high that the tears instantly welled in her eyes. John met her at the top of the stairs with a hug. Her husband, Samuel, took over as Lularoo's guide.

"Come inside, come inside!" Carol encouraged. "I'm so glad Bernard told us you were coming."

Samuel looked at Lularoo, then John, and then back down the road.

"You didn't walk all the way up here did you?" he asked.

"Only from the Welcome Center," John answered.

"But you don't look like you've broken a sweat."

"Oh Samuel, does it matter? I'd take you sweat, germs, and all," Carol reassured with a shake of the head, "Now, come. I've got something to show you!"

John glanced back at Lularoo but Samuel was already on his way to the barn, too proud to let his age stop him from implementing a few long awaited curtseys. Lularoo sniffed his pocket for the stash of licorice once kept there. Judging from the sudden snort and ear flick, it was full. John took her example and let Carol guide him into the house. It wasn't long before all three came together again in the living room. John sat on the sofa. Carol and Samuel sat in the two arm chairs opposing him. Cookie crumbs and a half empty pitcher of sweet tea delegated the meeting in between. The conversation started as it always did in the Wicket household: with pokemon. It started with Lularoo and wound its way back to Aria's pokemon. Boulder had a tendency to gossip about its beloved infamous ranger, but according to the Wicket's, what Bernard said was true.

"Sebastian hasn't been home since it happened," Carol said. "I imagine, he's off doing whatever it was he was doing before the fire storm. Like trainer like pokemon. He spent even less time at home than Aria. But that Arcanine . . . when Rolo realized Sebastian wasn't coming back, he ruffled his fur, stamped his paws, and growled like nobody's business. He was the last to leave, I assume to try and convince Sebastian to come home."

"Aren't you worried about them?" John asked.

"Heck no, the only thing I'm worried about is that poor aggron having to deal with that puppy pokemon all day and night. Rolo refuses to let Sebastian live in his cave of solitude alone. Which brings me to this. . ."

Carol set a rectangular box on the coffee table. It seemed to be an ordinary thing at first: made of wood, unpainted, unembellished. But when you leaned in, hand engravings garnished the edges. Letters, symbols, and pictures scrolled across them with unspoken words powerful enough to silence the room. John hovered his fingers over it. Delicate lace filigree scrolled by underneath. It moved with just the trace of a gaze, a language only craftsman recognized and mystics understood. It was a product of man and yet it felt like the presence of a pokemon. There wasn't just an object inside but a story. One that made his heart race faster than a secret on the verge of the truth.

"Aria talked about you all the time while you were gone," Carol explained. "Even when you started that special training and she couldn't contact you, she spoke as if you were going to come home any second." Carol pointed at the box. "She left specific instructions for this in her will. No one was allowed to open it but you. Caused quite a stir amongst us."

"We even attempted to open it," Samuel added. "On more than one occasion."

Carol quickly nudged him in the ribs. John didn't notice. Aria left something specifically for him? Why? Neither of them were into jewelry or finery worth more than a hand woven flower tiara and they never did anything so clandestine to have a secret or inside joke that the entire range didn't already know about.

"Well, go on, open it," Carol urged.

"Don't rush him," Samuel quickly interrupted.

John swallowed his hesitation with a dry chuckle. Carol was right. The only way to find out what lay inside was to open it. He touched the box at both corners. Carol and Samuel leaned in a little closer. Before they fell out of their seats, John lifted the lid. A midnight blue silk cloth covered something inside. With another nudge from Carol, John pulled the silk cover away. The fabric slipped out of his fingers and revealed a feather.

Well, it had the _shape_ of a feather but his eyes barely understood the sight. The threads were silver but not just any silver. Platinum was too cold and the band of a diamond ring too hard. It was natural but not found in nature; as if the stars had forged moonlight into a single object. What didn't glitter with celestial shine fell away in a darkness so deep, that the feather could have fallen to the bottom of the ocean. White spots flecked sea salt along the midnight blue band running across the bottom of the vane and the white afterfeather couldn't decide whether it wanted to burn like the sun or smoke better than a cool night.

So high had the feather flown that cirrus cloud ice frosted the tip. Tattered edges alluded to a straight line. The rachis was broken in the middle. A few threads were ripped out and some of the edges burned black. Old, used, and battle worn, and yet the end of the barbs sparkled in his eyes. Carol couldn't contain her gasp when she saw it. Samuel leaned back in his chair as John carefully picked up the feather. Years of birdwatching, tracking, and scouting as a trooper told him it was a contour feather. One of the smallest yet the feather was longer than his hand. He could only imagine the size of the pokemon it came from.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't imagine it at all.

"It's beautiful," Carol exclaimed.

"Where on Earth did Aria get that?" Samuel asked.

John twirled the feather lightly, running through his memories to try and find some kind of answer to Samuel's question. Strangely enough, he found it at the edge of the ocean. The waves filled his eyes as vastly as the feather.

"I think . . . she found it at the beach," John exclaimed.

"The beach?" Carol and Sam asked as they looked at one another. "But it's been years since we've been to the coast. In fact, Aria's only been there once after Styx passed and that was to watch my mother's house."

"I remember now, that was when that hurricane came out of nowhere and put the region in a state of emergency," Samuel filled in. "Said she met a friend while she was huddled up there. Maybe it was a gift?"

Met a friend? Aria didn't have any friends, or at least, that's what she always said when it came to people. But Pokemon, that was another thing. . . Wait.

"Either way, I've done my part and passed it on to you. It's yours now," Carol exclaimed. She relaxed in her chair and rested an open palm on the arm rest. Her husband took it in his own. Together, they quieted until Samuel turned his watery eyes up at John.

"If you'd like to thank her yourself, she's up at the garden," he said.

"It's just a memorial," Carol added, "The day we stopped looking was the day the boy's last saw Sebastian, standing in the ashes of the southern side after the rain. They said he was painted black from the soot and charcoal. His blue eyes glowed so fiercely you could see them twenty feet away. They . . ." Her voice began to waver. "They said that he was alone but-but somehow I feel like he was the last one to see my baby girl."

Samuel looked at Carol with another squeeze of their hands. She drew enough strength from it to continue.

"It's funny, but most days, it doesn't feel like anything's changed. Aria was always out on the mountain. Every day she spent less and less time around the house. I was lucky to see her just a couple times a month." Her voice cracked. In it, John heard the grief that would forever split a mother's heart with the death of her only child. Tears started flowing like they had wanted to since he first arrived. "Does that make me a bad mother?" she cried.

Samuel kissed Carol on the head and it soothed her sobs to controllable pangs of the heart. John quickly took over as he replaced the feather in his hands with Carol's thin fingers. He leaned in and looked up at her with the same honesty he did as a youngster.

"You're a good enough mother to make a second hand son out of a fool like me," John confessed.

Carol laughed back another sob. She turned to Samuel with a hand over her mouth as if to stop the encroaching smile from ruining her grief. Samuel merely shrugged. She took both her hands in John's and nodded. Together, the three packed up the feather and walked out onto the front porch. This part of John's reunion now complete. Carol and Samuel stood side by side at the top of the steps. They looked down with somber smiles as John put on his gear again, now filled with the feather case and a Ziploc bag of cookies. He trotted down the steps, careful to avoid the left most corner of the bottom step out of habit. Carol bit her lip and quickly stepped out from Samuel's arm.

"Before you go," she called, her voice weakening at the end. "Is it true? Did Lopo really find you?"

John carefully unfastened the friend ball and held it out in his palm for them to see.

"You know me," he said. "I'm not much of a liar."

"More like, not a very good one," Samuel corrected.

Carol smiled but her eyes stayed on the friend ball. John quickly curled his fingers around it and fastened it back into place.

"He made quite an entrance," John explained, "But traveling across Valenis took its toll on him. He's resting now."

"O-oh, of course," Carol quickly said, pulling back from her stare. "We were a little worried the way he left like that."

"One night, he just stopped at the edge of the porch light," Samuel explained with a motion to the far edge of the front lawn. "He looked at me. I looked at him and then he left without a sound. No last glance or nothin'."

"It was rather unsettling."

"When he's feeling better. I'll be sure to bring him by for a visit," John reassured.

He didn't have it in him to let the Wicket's see Lopo now. They might not be able to take it. Besides, John couldn't make the canine's journey worthless by bringing him back to the very place he left behind months ago in just a matter of days. It would be an insult.

"We'll look forward to it. And take your time," Carol said. "Keep an eye out for Sebastian and Rolo while you're out there. Sam and I will keep Lularoo company. It's been a while since we've had a pokemon in the house. You don't mind if an old biddy like myself stays behind do you?"

"It's alright," John answered. "I know the way."

And indeed he did. In winter, summer, spring and fall, he climbed this narrow path away from the house and into the mountain where a large trio of boulders guarded the unofficial transition into the wild. Decades of soil, nutrients, and water collected at the rocks' base, creating soft undisturbed earth that was easy to dig and free of debris. John stopped just outside of it. The rock trio stood taller than him at its highest crest. Their faces shielded the bright green grass beneath from wind and storm. A thin gap between two of the boulder's allowed a sliver of sunlight into the nook.

A single tree followed that light, growing just tall enough to catch the rays when they bent over the top of the rocks. But being raised by granite and quartz wasn't easy for a sugar maple. Its trunk bent in the suggestion of a crescent from the years of chasing the line of the sun over the tops of the boulders. The branches were short but wide. Bright green leaves freshly dressed for mid-summer crowned the top. If you were quick enough to catch them in the fall, each leaf carried enough luck to get you through the New Year, or in John's case, a flat 30 seconds. If it wasn't for that tree and the many autumns spent underneath, John was sure he wouldn't have made it past the age of 15.

And without Aria, he wouldn't have become the man he was today.

"The Garden" is what they called it. It was the place all Wicket pokemon went when they settled once and for all on the mountain. Aria never thought of it as a graveyard. She couldn't, not when the wild grass bloomed in the spring. Autumn painted the boulders the color of her fire canine and winter capped the boulders in snow better than a puff balled Santa hat. John closed his eyes and took in a long draft of cool mountain air. Left to linger, he would have fallen asleep under the trees. Blanketed with the sun, lulled to sleep with the rustle of the trees, the woods were his home. Now, he understood why Carol felt so guilty about Aria's death. Nothing about the mountain had changed. It was as if Aria had never left them. She implanted her very soul into these woods, watching over them, protecting them, and loving them just as fiercely as when she was alive.

John relaxed with an exhale. This wasn't goodbye but God did he miss her. At least, he wasn't alone. The rider touched the two empty slots in his pokebelt next to Lopo's friend ball. The Wicket's weren't the only ones who dug in this soft and fertile earth. John walked over to the tree and gently stroked the bark.

"Hey, Sprout," he said. "Mind asking Mother if you can shake off a few leaves early for me?" John knew better than to ask so much of the memorial of his first bellsprout and mightyena. They would have scolded him for relying on luck.

John dropped his hand from the tree and walked into the grassy alcove. He sat down on the smooth flat stone that faced the rock wall. He looked into it, naming every mineral that glistened back at him. A shallow alcove had been carved in the center of the largest boulder since his last visit. A single small candle burned inside. Its flame burned brightly in the shallow rocky scoop. Slick remains of countless others fastened it into place. The wick burned low, warming the minerals to glisten in the light. Dry leaves surrounded the candle. Their sharp swooping edges hid acorns and berry stubs tossed in between. Marble colored leafs caught the glow of the flame. Uniquely shaped stones stuck out from the makings of a nest. Placed there by people or pokemon, John didn't know. The collection may have been amazingly insignificant to antiquers, researchers, and grave stone makers.

But it was perfect for Aria.

She would have loved each and every token, found some way to trace it back to the pokemon that left it there, and then thank them for their consideration. But what would his token be? Could anything be so precious as to symbolize everything Aria had been to him? John stared at the alcove, looked down at the gear set beside him, and unzipped the smallest pocket. He pulled out the wooden box sensei had given him and flipped open the lid. Sunlight bounced off of the Cork City gym badge inside with a gleam of smooth liquid silver.

John raised his head. He stood, walked over the hallowed ground with respect latent in every step, and stopped in front of the memorial. The badge caught his eye again. With it, he was a true ace trainer. He had proof to everyone and everything that ever looked down on him that he had a place in this world. No matter how many times he was beaten, mocked, or disregarded, he was something. Two years of toil and a lifetime of commitment filled his hands. John carefully sat the badge next to a chunk of rose quartz.

"I couldn't have done it without you," he said with a smile.

The nest suddenly moved. Twigs, leaves, and dried flowers shifted with the distinct rustle of a living creature. John froze. Instead of pulling his hand away, he slowly stepped back, positioning his toes between the blades of grass to not make a sound. Lopo would have been proud. If he was lucky, he could get enough distance to release a pokemon should the creature prove itself dangerous. But this was summer. There were no leaves to catch from Bellsprout's tree. The nest rustled again. Whatever was inside was definitely alive. And a pokemon too. It sat up, out of the bedding and yawned. She was small, although, John had no idea if it was a she or not because he had never seen anything quite like her before.

Humanoid in shape, she was no bigger than a doll. Her skin took after leaf buds and her shape, carved wood. Thick black lines framed her eyes, serving as natural mascara to keep the sun out of her eyes when emerging from a canopy, woodpecker hole, and apparently a nap in a collection of organic memorabilia. John knew every species of pokemon on this mountain. There wasn't a breed or variation he hadn't badgered, bickered with, or bested in the art of survival, and yet, not a single encyclopedia, handbook, or survival guide he ever read could identify this pokemon. And when logic came up with nothing, even his imagination couldn't sort through the myths and fairytales for the right answer. But the rider didn't have to know the species to tell that the pokemon was young, a hatchling even. A gentle roundness touched the edges of her skin. The largeness of her eyes was untainted by experience. Eyes that were wide to everything the world had to offer.

Eyes that looked directly at him.

John sucked in his breath. Sitting there with a dried flower petal on her head, she could have enchanted the forest with a single blink of her eyes. He believed in fairies, or at least, that's what he used to call the little green glowing specks of light that drifted up from the pond on the other side of the Wicket property during warm summer nights. It was as if one had finally evolved into the pixie pokemon he always thought them to be. John didn't move. He knew better than to flinch or run when spotted. Just what sort of pokemon had he disturbed? The pixie pokemon looked at him, and when her head tilted slightly to the other side, it became clear that she had never seen a human before.

Good. The feeling was mutual.

She then looked at the wooden box set beside the candle. One lean and she caught sight of the Cork City gym badge within. More leaves rustled as a set of translucent wings suddenly fluttered up from her back. Its hum: quick and short to replace her gasp. John laughed. At least someone was impressed. He quickly threw his hand over his mouth. And someone couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Pixie looked at him again. She watched and fluttered her wings, this time, into a steady hum. John dropped his hand. It left a smile in its place, and to his surprise, the pokemon smiled back. She glanced between the badge and trainer, made the connection and removed the badge from the case. One lift put her at eye level. She rubbed her tiny fingers over the badge and held it out to him with a sway. Cute and curious.

"It's a gym badge," John explained, "from Cork City."

The pixie pokemon lowered the badge. She held it close to her face, magnifying the glitter of a sight first beheld so that her eyes went wide. Her humming wings took her straight over the trainer's shoulder and away from the boulder. John spun with her, chuckling at the enthusiasm that elevated into a buzz from one side of the garden to the next. Pixie brandished her new prize over every square inch. She held it out to the boulders, up to the maple tree, and twirled it through the wild grass. The sound of her wings bounced against the walls as she flew, gaining and losing tone as if wind chimes were rustling in the breeze. They were soft yet rang deep into matter, like the purr of a feline pokemon towards the trainer it loved. Pixie then twirled her way up into a spiral around John's body. From boot to brow, she danced, forcing him to lift his arms in order to make room for the performance.

"Well, I'm glad you like it," he exclaimed. "I'm sure Aria wouldn't mind if you take it. Someone or another would find it eventually, better in the hands of a pokemon that appreciates it."

Pixie hovered again in front of John, this time with the badge clutched to her chest tighter than a diary. At this height, her wings caught the light over the top of the boulders. An iridescent shimmer rippled behind her. It disappeared as she darted off towards the trees, comparing the badge to their bark and showing off its glimmer. According to Wicket tradition, now that a pokemon had revealed itself and its nature, it could no longer stay a stranger. Pixie needed a name. John scratched his head with a wink of his eye.

"Well, since Aria's not here, I guess I'll do the honors," he said.

It needed to be a new name, one never used before, because as far as the trainer knew, this was a new species of pokemon. It couldn't be some run of the mill name either. There was something special about this pokemon, something that made it seem as if they had known about one another's existence since birth. Most names were based off of personality but John hadn't spent enough time with her to know even a type. He'd have to use physical attributes instead. Color was as good as any a trait. The pixie's skin played host to a multitude of greens and whites that transitioned between hues as naturally as a stalk of celery from foot to head. Celery. That was unique enough. But the name needed to have the inflection of intimacy. Aria managed to soften even the unbreakable metal of an aggron with an "ie" at the end of Sebastian's nickname. Maybe it would work for him as well?

"I got it," John announced. "How about: 'Celebi'?"

No one had to know it was inspired by a vegetable and baby talk. The pixie pokemon buzzed over to him with a cry that changed the hum of her wings into a sound wave that rippled the canopy with the same iridescent shimmer as her wings. John looked up at it, leaving his jaw behind.

"Wow," he murmured as the sound faded back into the forest and the color of the leaves stilled again. Celebi rubbed her face into the badge, threw up her arms in a call no less than joyful, and zoomed off into the woods.

"Hey, wait!" John called after her.

There was still much to be learned about her. He jumped off of the boulder and ran after the pixie pokemon. She stayed just ahead of him, teasing with turns and twists. Every step John took shook off the dusty grief he collected on the journey over. Each widening stride drew him further and further from the burden of tragedy. His heart raced with the excitement of discovery, pursuit, and adventure once more. There was no better chance to remember what it was like to be on the mountain again than to run with the wild pokemon across it. John created his own mountain valley breeze. It rushed over him as he leapt between rock faces, weaved between grooves, and ducked under branches. Not a briar nor thorn dare scratch him. Not a root tripped him, and with each passing breath, it became easier and easier to breathe. In fact, it had never been so easy to run before, or fly, in Celebi's case.

The pixie pokemon hummed to a stop. Never before had she raced so passionately. For what purpose, she didn't know, but it was one that satisfied her to the point of exhaustion so she turned around to check on the progress of her companion. Her smile dropped faster than a mask. John didn't understand why until he realized that her smile wasn't the only thing that dropped. He became weightless for a moment. He saw Celebi. She rushed towards him but vanished from view as his latest leap found more air instead of ground. What was supposed to be a five foot gap happened to be fifteen and the sharply slopping mountain face in between caught the mistake. John leapt full force off of the cliff. He should have known better than to let himself run free and fast without patrolling the landscape first. But then again, it was wonderful to fly, if only for a moment.


	8. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 2

**A Gift from a Friend: 2**

Darkness. Total unblemished pitch black. John would have been frightened if he hadn't been infatuated with the dark since he was born. In the depths of a pokemon burrow, at night in the folds of a makeshift tent, and the weightless unconsciousness after getting smacked in the head by pokemon larger than himself nearly every day of his life created many a fantasy. So much light came out of the darkness that John easily found his way within it. What lay within the shadows? It was a question of taboo standards. Most people tucked tail and ran at its utterance. John recited it with vigor. Each answer filled with a hushed whisper of excitement. What lay beyond the veil? A newborn rattata, buried treasure, or maybe even a second whisper just as elated as yours to venture into the dark? The latter not so much.

John blamed the stars for his obsession. It was because of their light that most of his escapades turned into adventures. Where the light of civilization couldn't reach, the stars extended their silver touch across the land. Constellations never failed to tell a good story. They always pointed home, and even when they were hidden away, that twinkle was always there just beyond storm and cloud. The darkness was never empty. John could never be alone with the stars watching over him. Besides, the shadows he knew were warm and never failed to keep him company.

And this time, they even sang.

John lay on his back, his head facing the sky. A shadow crossed his face, humming with curiosity as it did. He lay quiet and still, so much so, Celebi wasn't sure the trainer was going to wake up again. She clutched the Cork City gym badge tightly to her chest and called softly to see if it would help. It didn't. John didn't wake. Aside from a coating of rock dust and dirt, there wasn't any damage. Not that she could see. Celebi fluttered over him to make sure. It wasn't time for hibernation. Was it the work of a status effect? Celebi nervously buzzed back and forth, looking for traces of powder or sting. She wasn't equipped to handle something like that. Luckily, neither were found. But then, what could she do to wake John up?

The pixie pokemon held out the badge between her hands. It was the first thing she saw when she woke up, maybe it would work for him as well? But where to put it? Celebi glanced over John one more time until she spotted the Cork City Dojo emblem on his jacket. It matched her prize, and thus, must be the right spot. She gently dropped down, kneeled on John's chest, and pulled aside his jacket with a grunt. There was red and brown flannel underneath, a true mountaineer's skin. It was colored like the forest undergrowth. Celebi rubbed one hand over the fabric above his heart. Soft like it too. Perfect. Now, she could plant the seed of life.

Celebi quickly tucked the badge into John's chest pocket and pulled the jacket back over it. She patted it down with confidence. There was no reason the badge shouldn't wake him up. He smelled just like a dandelion seed and those sprang up quick and strong in the most scraggly of rock piles. John stirred. One eye winked against the sunlight but a shadow quickly drifted in front of it to shade him from the discomfort. John recognized the smooth round lines but it was the hum of the wings behind it that made him smile.

"Hey Celebi," John winced.

He sat up and the pixie pokemon twirled out of the way with a joyful squeal. Darkness resisted the motion, clouding John's eyes with shadows once more. He put a hand to his head with a wince and blinked away the haze. Several leaves were stuck within the folds of his hair. Even more fell from his clothes as he traded his head for his ribs. Breathing wasn't easy, but then again, having the wind knocked out of you tended to do that. He felt around his body. Nothing seemed broken and all limbs were still attached. His body knew what to do when it fell. A lifetime of stumbling, tumbling, and falling down the mountains on accident and on purpose made sure of that. Even his pokegear was still attached.

John glanced around him. For having just taken a tumble off of a cliff, there wasn't a rock face or ravine in sight. In fact, a grassy clearing replaced the woody hillsides he expected. Trees as old as the dirt beneath them surrounded him several yards away. Their trunks blocked out any view of the forest. John followed them up to the sky. When the branches reached their limits, white clouds skated across the blue hole in the canopy. No wonder the light was so bright. John dropped his gaze back to the earth and ran his hand through the thick grass beneath him. Fields like this belonged in the ponyta valleys down below, not up here on the mountain. The blades bounced and waved in a fibrous green ocean around him. Just when exactly did he wade into these waters?

John looked behind him and lost his breath again, this time, because there was a lost temple at the bottom of this grassy sea. Pillars of stone older than the surrounding trees adorned an invisible walkway down the clearing. Several were broken. A few failed the test of time and lay broken on the ground but not one dared to defy its purpose and cross the path it once guarded. Whether fallen or still standing, all proudly extended their hands to the shrine constructed in the back of the clearing. A tiered platform created a series of steps up to an altar that had not felt the footsteps of humanity in centuries. Flowering vies hung as tapestries. The woods beyond now serving as walls, expanding the temple to hold the very essence of the mountain itself. Wind and rain had worn the runes carved into the masonry down to unshaped ripples but it did not change the fact that this place was built for a very special, if not holy purpose.

The grass stretched towards the shrine with the fingers of a meadow. Wildflowers painted the tips. Yellows and purples rubbed up against the shrine's foundations. They now colored the stories written there since the paint had worn away centuries ago. A shallow but distinct path flattened the colorful carpet from the countless steps of pokemon coming to pay their respects. Aria used to tell stories of a place deep within the forest, a place that couldn't be found on a map because she had never been there the same way twice. A sparkle no less than magical gleamed in her eye whenever she spoke of it. "It belonged to the Range," she always said, "and appeared only during the beat of the mountains' heart." Considering the lifespan of a mountain range, it wasn't very often. So powerful was this life force that a single pump rippled the very fabric of reality, transcending dimensions and allowing those who heard its beat into a world un-bequest to them.

Even for a youngster's imagination, it was something hard to comprehend, and thus, John convinced himself it was mere fiction. Until now.

"She was right," he whispered. "I knew it."

Celebi flew within the ancient ruins. The hum of her wings soaked into the clearing more naturally than a morning dew, making the minerals in the stones suddenly glisten with fresh life. She flew back to John and circled around him as he stood. She grabbed his hand and pulled. He coughed out a chuckle and followed her down the path. His smile was much harder to break than his bones. Celebi released her grasp and floated backwards with a joyful whistle of her wings. The sound found its way to the nearest pillar. She motioned to the stone's magnificence. Her eyes reading something far deeper than the carvings. Story by story, she bounced between the walkway, forcing John to stop halfway through and spin in order to keep up. When the tale was complete, she dropped down to the path and hugged a bouquet of grass. Several wildflowers pressed against her face to return the embrace.

John glanced down at a pile of stones purposefully arranged on a flat block nearby. Celebi rushed over and picked one up, waving it around and exchanging it with others so that he could see each one. Some looked familiar, no doubt more tidbits and tokens found at the garden. Whether they were there for a purpose, decoration, or game, there was apparently far too much to see to linger on it. Celebi flew off deeper into the temple, and when John didn't follow, she flew back, grabbed his pocket, and tugged him along.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," he laughed.

Together, they walked down the grassy path towards the altar. Celebi lazily spun between the pillars. She played with the dandelion spores kicked up from the trainer's feet. They twirled together up along the ruins. John's hand followed them. He laid a palm upon the glyphs of the nearest pillar, tracing his fingers across a language he couldn't tell whether it was made by pokemon or humans. Just what sort of stories did they tell? This place was a researcher's dream. One crack of the code and a paradise of history would flow out, probably changing the interpretation of an eon. Just exactly how old was the Valic Mountain Range? Old enough to instill a sense of magic, and yet, John felt as if he had seen this sort of thing before. But where?

The trainer slowly lowered his eyes to the straps of pokegear across his shoulders. His thoughts went even further to the box Carol had given him. It may have been that magic was drawn to mystery but John felt the need to look at the feather again. He swung his bag over his shoulder, unzipped the pocket, and pulled out the wooden box. The symbols carved into it were different than the trace work on the pillars, but somehow, John knew they had to be related. Celebi leaned over his shoulder and also looked at the box. She grabbed his jacket to anchor herself. Her curiosity dangerously peeked beyond curtesy but the hum of her wings tickled John's ear. He tilted closer to her in a whisper.

"Want to see what's inside?" he asked.

Celebi pulled the jacket up over her face and nodded but this was no place to reveal such a secret. John glanced around for a better spot. A strong ray of sunlight would accent the feather much more extravagantly than the shade of the pillar. Luckily, there were plenty of options in the clearing, but none better than the top of the altar. John approached, hopped up the steps, and set the box on top of the granite slab. Celebi repositioned herself on the crown of his head, laying on it with the eagerness of a Saturday morning cartoon. John turned an eye up at her in a smile. Compared to the linoone that normally occupied the spot, the burden was light. The one in his heart, even more so.

Although the box was unstained and unpolished, placing it on the altar gave it a depth and a shine that rivaled the glimmer of a jewel. John half expected to see wood shavings from its creation scattered across the altar. The box set its presence in the stone as deeply as the roots of the trees surrounding them. Celebi spread flat on her stomach as the lid opened. John paused for dramatic effect. She crawled down, never once pulling her eyes away from the box, and hugged his neck cheek to cheek. A little too magical for even the pixie pokemon?

John resisted a chuckle and gently unfolded the blue cloth. Celebi rushed forward before he finished. She peeked over the edge, took one wide eyed look at the feather, and threw her hands up in a single note song. Heightened by the hum of her wings, it pitched into a chime louder than church bells. The call echoed farther than it should have, reaching a place uncharted by any map. And in that place, something answered. The chime ripple the trees in a stirring wind. The canopy flashed in a blueish green hue, serving as a medium to mix the ocean of green grass below and blue sky above. They shimmered in successive and quickening concussions of energy that electrified the air with each passing wave.

Celebi quickly covered her mouth in a gasp but it was too late. Pressure filled the ruins, causing distortions in vision and temperature. She fluttered back and forth, unsure of how to swim in these strange turquoise waters. Whatever was happening, it was out of her control. The feather suddenly began to glow. John looked away from it and towards his clothes as they slowly began to lift from his skin. Now, he really felt underwater. Time to go. John quickly snapped the box shut, shoved it in his bag, and zipped it up tight. A tremor rocked him into the edge of the altar. He grabbed it but the silver glow of the feather had already found its way into the stone. The altar glowed beneath him. It's light spread down the platform and along the pillars. Without glyphs to guide it, the energy encased the entire stone network of the lost temple.

Another tremor rocked through the clearing. Celebi covered her head with her hands and slowly floated away from the altar. On the ground and in the air the vibrations of the tremor didn't stop. The entire clearing vibrated with the building energy. John whirled around and saw Celebi drift away from him, cowering from the thing that had answered her call. Whatever it was, John wasn't going to let her face it alone. He grit his teeth against the numbing pressure, reached out for her, and leapt off of the platform. The world went with him.

Colors streaked out of focus, pulling into a sharp white light that strobed John blind. With it, the energy vibrating within him suddenly pulsed outward in a nauseating summersault. As his stomach flipped, so did the rest of his body. John fell. First, into darkness. Then, into water. It splashed as he dropped out of the air and into its depths. Sight and sound roared into a muffled deafness. There was no up, no down, and especially no air. John inhaled a lungful of water in search of it. He didn't know how, but suddenly, he was drowning. Panic set in. He groped at the weighted nothingness, mind and muscle flailing with the instinctual desperation of survival. Two hands met him in kind. They grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upwards. John broke the surface but found no air until he hit solid ground. A rough impact knocked some of the water from his lungs. A coughing fit spat out the rest.

What the hell just happened? One leap lands him in a mystical half dimension and the other in a body of water where grass should have been. John attempted to push himself up but just because he was on solid ground didn't mean the world had stopped spinning. His arms crossed one another and he fell to the ground again. Mud splattered across half of his face. A stick jammed into his cheek to add injury to insult. At least in the water there wasn't anything to run into.

"Whoever came up with this festival idea should be shot," a voice exclaimed above him. It was distinctively feminine and pissed as hell. "This is the third one tonight."

John stuck his backside in the air in an attempt to plant himself in a direction distinguishing up from down. Both hands firmly slapped the mud and the trainer shoved his upper body from the ground. He swung upwards, bringing with it, Carol's cookies. John bent over and tossed them in a hurl worthy of the colorful nauseating light show he just unwillingly experienced.

" _Ugh_ , nasty . . ." the voice continued. "What's your bet? Drugs or alcohol?"

John refused to give in to the weird swirling circus act of his senses. He stood up sharply in an attempt to overcome it, stumbled off to the side, and fell over hard enough to doubt whether he had ever left the ground in the first place.

"Both," the second voice answered. It was slower and deeper, most likely from a man.

The hands grabbed the back of John's jacket again. They yanked him to his feet and held him there. Darkness swirled in his eyes but quickly retreated against the flashlight running across his vision.

"Jesus, did you see his pupils?" the female voice exclaimed. The light strobed just like the energy pulse, causing John to lurch again. "He's lucky we're on watch duty and heard him splashing around like a maniac or he would've drowned in two inches of water."

"I think you mean 'lucky we just so happened to be making out in the nearby vicinity while we were _supposed_ to be on watch duty'. We should make out more often. Apparently, it saves lives."

John blinked but the darkness didn't go away. Stars spun in a waltz across his vision. Did he get punched in the face or had he finally left earth and drifted into outer space? Right now, he couldn't tell the difference.

"Shit, let's just leave him in his own mess. He's standing now."

The two hands holding John up suddenly released their hold. He crumpled to the ground again. At least that answered his question. Earth it was.

"Whoops, sorry buddy," the male voice said.

John waved an arm in recognition. At this point, he had enough ups and downs to gauge his position and that was progress. With handfuls of grass, he was determined to keep the ground within reach this time. His stomach thought otherwise. It cartwheeled with every shift of his gaze. Colors still left tracers in his vision from his leap through quantum physics but at least the nausea was now recognizable. There was only one thing that could poison without toxin and confuse without thinking and that was a psychic pokemon attack. So that was Celebi's energy type . . .

"He looks pretty bad. Should we take him to your house? Its closer," the male continued.

"Hell no. Let's bring him to town, everybody's down there anyway for the festival. The clinic's got the tent set up, remember? We'll dump him there," the female answered.

With several deep breaths, John wobbled into the eye of his sensational tornado. Light and dark separated into two shadows that stood over him. He spoke, but whatever gibberish came out of his mouth only made the female voice sigh even harder.

"Let's get him up," she relented.

Four hands now lifted John to his feet. They wobbled harder than gelatin on a fault line, forcing the two people to hold him up in a joint effort. John sagged suddenly to the side. The female cursed and the male shouldered more of the burden. They carried him into the lights of an ATV. John lifted his head with a squint of his eye. There was no bright sunlight here to narrow his gaze, only a greyscale color scheme, shadows, and blinding battery operated lights.

"Is it night time?" he asked, or rather, thought he asked because the female snapped back sharply. "No, it's not 'naps time' and I swear, if you puke on me-,"

"You'll probably smell better than this pond muck. _Whew_ , man, you stink!" the male interrupted. John attempted to look at him but his head only rolled to the side and back down again. He caught a glimpse of the green Outpost trooper uniform on the way around. Good, he was still on the mountain but it was hours later than what he expected it to be. Did he pass out from the weird undulating pressure burst or land head first on a rock?

"Is night time?" he tried again.

"Lord, how much did you drink?" the female asked. "It's practically midnight."

"Don't be so harsh on him. Today is a celebration," her partner added.

"Celebration my ass. God, this guy weighs a ton. You wouldn't think he'd be this heavy given how lean he is."

"Set him in the middle, you ride in the back and keep him steady. I'll drive. I hope you're ready for a bumpy ride, Stranger."

"Ride?" John asked.

"Yeah, the worst ride of the night for us," the woman added. "For you, it'll be in the morning."

They positioned John on the ATV. He offered no resistance, after all, he was familiar with the sensation of other people throwing him around all the time. Plus, there was something familiar about these people, and if they worked for the Outpost, than they had to be good people. Two hands reluctantly hugged John's waist to brace him for the upcoming descent. For a moment, he thought the disorientation would pass, but when the world began moving again, stuffing his face into the back of the man in front of him was all John could do to stay sane. At this rate, he wouldn't make it to morning.


	9. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 3

**A Gift from a Friend: 3**

Sheriff Cewalski dampened a handkerchief across his brow. With one deputy, a belt of two pokemon, and a town packed to the brim with tourists and visitors, he was starting to doubt his decision to let the little backwards town of Boulder hold a pokemon festival. This was their third year hosting the event and there were already twice as many booths, three times the visitors, and quadruple the problems.

He saddled a wide brimmed cowboy hat on his head with another deep sigh. A pokemon festival meant pokemon, and pokemon meant battles, bruises, and busted egos. None of which led for a boring day. Juggling local politics, pokemon control, and law enforcement was a circus act of its own on a normal day. Throw in a couple hundred tourists with no sense of direction, too much money to spend, and a headful of expectations of having a good time, and the badge pinned to Cewalski's chest suddenly became a beacon for the crossed, crazy, and confused. Luckily, he was a natural "fix it" man by birth. If only he had a sink to repair instead of an entire year's worth of bad decisions in one night.

Sheriff Cewalski tucked his handkerchief away in the pocket of his brown standard issue uniform. He looked around the tent filled with benches, plastic chairs, and makeshift examination tables filled with the drunk and disoriented. It was hard enough trying to help those who couldn't help themselves, but shooing away curious eyes while serving as a one man information booth didn't make things any easier.

"Sheriff, hand me those Band-Aids would you?"

Cewalski turned around to find the town doctor blindly holding out one hand while pressing gauze against a patient's leg with the other. The wound was minor but painful enough to keep the victim wet with tears of exaggeration. Still, the doctor never broke focus. Cewalski quickly whirled around and grabbed a plastic box from its place on top of a clipboard. The medical sheets underneath had been abandoned two hours ago, along with any hopes of sleeping tonight. He opened a sterile package and handed it off. Being the one and only first responder in Boulder bestowed him the title of official unofficial nurse technician. Festival night had a knack of utilizing every ounce of his training. It added more and more length to the belt of public servant around his waist. The goodies Doctor Rebecca Wells offered in gratitude after every good deed also helped.

Sheriff Cewalski didn't stick around the medical tent if he didn't have to, but so far, he saw a few bandages, mostly band aids, a couple of burns, more pills for a queasy stomach than painkillers, and enough cases of dehydration to buy out the local convenience store. And judging by the sweat line between Doctor Wells' eyes, she anticipated that the worst was yet to come. He didn't blame her. The prickle down his neck told him that the hotheads and young bloods have yet to prove themselves the top trainer in town. Boulder would need a stadium to contain all that testosterone. Several ruffians came to mind at the thought. Cewalski made a mental note to check in on them later, but none of those troublemakers matched the man that suddenly fell through the flaps of the tent. He landed on the nearest trash can with a hurl. Two young folks walked in after him, a male and a female, both younger than their charge and sporting the dark green uniform of the mountain scouts from across the highway.

"At least he made it to the trash can this time," the male exclaimed. The female glanced up at the sheriff with a smile that informed Cewalski his brief moment of contemplation was over.

"Just who I was looking for!" she exclaimed with a step over the inebriated. "Look, Sheriff, we brought you another present."

"Sam. Carol," Cewalski nodded respectively to each, "You shouldn't have."

The stranger on the floor pulled himself to his feet and knocked over a stool and a couple of water bottles in the process.

"Really?" Carol chastised. She then lifted John back to his feet with two _iron claws_. Sam picked up the stool with an apologetic glance at the doctor who was growing more irritated by the second now that three extra bodies magically showed up in her tent, taking up valuable work space.

"You should arrest him for trespassing," Carol explained with a shake. "This idiot would have drowned in the pond if it wasn't for us."

"Wow, he made it all the way up there?" Cewalski exclaimed with a whistle. "Must have gotten lost before sundown, poor fella'."

"Trust me, he doesn't need your sympathy."

Sam walked over and nudged the sheriff in the side. "Tossed his cookies on the way down," he whispered.

"More like the whole damn bakery!" Carol corrected with a glance at her boots and a shake of her foot. "Now, I know why my mother always talks about leaving for the beach."

Carol held the stranger away from her, afraid of contaminating her uniform with his mud splattered clothes.

"Whadya say Doc, is he contagious?" Cewalski asked with a turn of his head. Rebecca Wells looped the stethoscope around her neck with a sigh. She walked over with a brush of her white jacket, looked for anything critical, and scrunched up her nose at the smell of ripe pond muck stinking up her mobile clinic. From the other side of the tent, another tourist walked in with a posse of spectators wailing over a cut on his arm that was bleeding profusely. She didn't spend another second on the smell.

"Contagious: no. A nuisance: yes," she explained before sweeping past Cewalski towards the newcomers. "Better put him in the tank before he hurts himself."

Cewalski sighed, disappointed that he couldn't pawn off at least one of his chores today. He held out his hand with a wag of his fingers. "Alright, pass him on. I'll take him from here," he said. "Just make sure no one else crosses that highway and gets lost in the wild."

"Deal!" the scouts echoed.

Carol shoved the stranger forward. Cewalski caught the man and whirled him around by the back of the jacket. He had to keep a tight grip when the man suddenly sagged. The sheriff righted him again with a heave.

"This is his bag," Sam explained with a pass of the pokegear found along with him. The stranger reached for it but missed with several waves of his hand. It took more effort than Cewalski would have liked to keep him in place.

"He's a bit of a mess but he's not that bad," Sam added.

"You get a name?" Cewalski asked.

Sam shrugged. "To be honest, couldn't really understand him. All we got was gibberish. Didn't keep him from trying to talk our ears off though."

Cewalski nodded with a sideways glance at the stranger. Young, overzealous, but not a cussing, fussing, pain in the ass. The sheriff would take what he could get. He led the stranger towards the entrance of the tent. "This better be the last of my presents tonight. I don't want any more gifts," Cewalski shouted over his shoulder at the scouts. "It isn't Christmas, ya know!" And he sure wasn't feeling like Santa Clause. But it was nice to be the big man in charge, especially when he had a town full of volunteers like the scouts to help keep Boulder from being trashed to pieces during the festivities.

Cewalski and the stranger walked out into the pokemon festival. "It looks like you had a little too much fun tonight. Sorry, but the parties over," he said with a light tug on the jacket. Physical cues went a long way when one was robbed of all intellectual sense. If there was any to begin with anyway. The stranger shook his head. It was a good twelve inches above his own. His first words were slurred but the man managed to swing them into audible order with a roll of his head.

"Don't like the drinky drink," the stranger informed. "Not good for da'souuul."

Cewalski laughed. "Seems to me you like it quite a bit!" he replied. "The part that comes after is what'll kill ya. Don't worry, we'll have you wait it out at the station and then I'll send you home."

"But I'sa is home."

"Glad you see it that way but I've never seen you before in all my life and I know every person in this town, God forbid."

The stranger stopped suddenly. He stared down the line of colorful booths lining Main Street. Pokemon shows, laughter, and the intoxicating aroma of fair food filled the spaces in between. Cewalski ran into him but wasn't worried about a sudden escape or act of resistance. The strings of multicolored lights glittered in the stranger's eyes better than the spirit of Christmas. Just like a stantler in headlights, or maybe a shroomish in breeding season depending on what the stranger indulged in tonight that messed him up so bad.

"Festival?" the man asked.

"Yes, a pokemon festival. It's probably the reason you came to Boulder and the same reason you'll forget it!" Cewalski laughed.

"But, is nots time. Too early for da'festies."

"And too early for you to be using your lips. Come on now."

Cewalski urged the stranger forward but the man didn't move. A wave of possible bad intentions washed the sheriff's hand along his belt to a pokeball. Instinct pulled his eyes to the man's waist where the mud soaked shirt had been pulled up and ripped open. Around it was a pokebelt and two pokeballs that he could see. They were probably balanced by others on the opposite side. Trainers didn't like journeying uneven. Cewalski flicked his gaze up at the man's hair tossed by maybe more than just a drinking problem.

"Alright, son, let's get movin' or we'll block the way," Cewalski slowly encouraged. Another hard squeeze of the arm put the trainer in motion. Coupled with a verbal cue, the prompt pulled the stranger out of the colorful distraction. "Watch your step," Cewalski advised. The man quickly looked down for a sudden danger that took precedence over his fascination with the festival. He awkwardly slid his foot around a plastic cup as if skating around a vat of poison.

"Watch over da steppie," he attempted to quote with deadly caution.

Cewalski wasn't sure what to say next as the stranger proceeded to put one foot in front of the other as carefully as possible to assist their journey across this dangerous route of plastic bags, confetti, and candy bits. The sheriff appreciated the effort since there was no way in hell he'd be able to carry the lad if his legs stopped working, intentionally or not. There was no sign of resistance . . . not yet. Sheriff Cewalski knew better than that. They made it past the vendors and onto the sidewalk with enough cooperation to avoid needless attention. The curb however, proved to be a hazard too great for the stranger to avoid. He stumbled over it. Cewalski anticipated the fall and avoided a face plant. Another hard squeeze reminded the stranger that he had a guide for this walk. He glanced over his shoulder at the star shaped badge close to his arm. He then looked at his escort.

"Who're you?" the stranger asked, a little too high pitched for modern curiosity. Strangely, Cewalski found himself insulted by the expression.

"The sheriff," he answered.

"Yous' not Cewalski!"

"Really now?"

"Lookie like'm dough."

"Must be a handsome fellow, and since we're on the subject, who are you?"

There was a pause, and when no answer came, the stranger lifted in the stiffness of sudden fear.

"Let's not get excited, Stranger, we're almost there," Cewalski exclaimed with another pat. The stranger calmed at the touch and forgot the question in his stupor. Surprisingly enough, for a stoned drunk tourist, he knew his way around town. In fact, he swiveled back and forth to make sure he was where he thought he was. But before the stranger felt any more sudden urges, Cewalski steered him into the Sheriff's Office, or rather, the door frame when the stranger suddenly stumbled unexpectedly to the side. He banged against the wood. "Ouchies," he muttered with a squint of his eye.

"Careful now, son," Cewalski chuckled as they ambled into the sheriff's station. A waist high wooden wall equipped with a swinging door in the center divided the office in two. The first section had two desks and a couple of filing cabinets. They faced each other and left just enough room in the middle to create a pathway to the back. Behind the barrier was a gun safe, another large desk, and two iron cells built into the back wall. A cot in the back room served as a temporary relieve but the sheriff didn't have the time, nor the privacy, to spare it a glance.

"My, my, back again?" a voice exclaimed.

Cewalski stopped at the barrier and held the stranger out to the side so to unlock the gate. There was only one other person in the station and he just happened to be an inmate locked in one of the cells. He stood with his arms through the bars better than the paws of a Persian through the lattice work of a sultan's palace. "Staying busy I see," he continued.

"Never bored on a festival night," Cewalski explained as he moved through the gate and positioned the stranger next to his desk. He set the personal bag on the table and opened it with one hand while keeping the stranger in place with the other. The bag was empty save for a wallet, wooden box, and a piece of metal equipment built into the backpack.

"And who is this?" the voice inquired. Cewalski flipped open the wallet. The ID card in the front read: 'John Hawkins'.

"Your new roommate," the sheriff replied with a flip of the wallet. The prisoner cocked his head lightly and looked John up and down, flexing his retractable claws should he need to use them. "Looks like he's had a rough night."

"Nothing as bad as what those fellas would have gotten from you if I hadn't stepped in," Cewalski answered as he placed the wallet back in the bag.

"It's not my fault they have no manners," the prisoner justified. " _They_ were the ones who challenged _me_ to a pokemon battle. I'm the victim here. So why again am I the one behind bars?"

"Because I was more worried about what you would do to them then what they would do to you."

The prisoner dropped his head with a light laugh and lifted it again to glance at the confiscated pokebelt waiting for him in Cewalski's desk drawer. "I suppose that's fair," he shrugged.

Cewalski didn't often take a liking to trouble making tourists, but he had to say, the one with his head in his hand behind the bars showcasing a smile was growing on him. The prisoner was young, probably around the same age as John, but with a look in his eye sharp enough to make you doubt whether you had been stabbed or not until the blood started pouring out. It was one of the reasons why Cewalski brought him in, although, the man seemed only too happy to stay out of sight.

"I hope you don't mind a little company," the sheriff added as he briefly patted John down for obvious weapons or illegal materials.

"He's not dangerous, is he?" the prisoner smirked.

"Dangers?" John suddenly gasped. He turned too fast for his own sense and fell into the desk, rattling the lamp and tossing several pieces of paperwork to the ground. He fell to the floor despite Cewalski's attempts to save him.

"Hardly," the sheriff answered. He picked John up again and abandoned the effort for proper intake paperwork. The mess on his desk wasn't worth the effort and neither was John cracking open his head. "This is just a babysitting gig. Care to take the job?"

"Do I get time off my sentence?"

Cewalski laughed. "Think of it as community service. This kid could use a guardian angel."

"Angel?" John questioned again. He looked at the prisoner and his expression took the inmate by surprise. So much hope for a place darkened by bad decisions. It would be an honorary title.

"Alright, I'll make sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself while you keep the town in one piece," the prisoner, now officially deemed "Angel", said.

Cewalski unconsciously sighed. Finally, one less nuisance to deal with. That was, until John's face suddenly paled with the eve of sickness. "Feeling alright there, son? Not gonna upchuck again, are ya?" the sheriff asked. His good humored tone dropped in instinctual hesitation again. There was look in John's eye, much like the one witnessed under the festival lights on Main Street. Mr. Hawkins was thinking about something. Hard. It must have been important to make it through such a deep drunken haze and importance meant precedence, precedence, haste, and haste, action. None of which were good for someone who couldn't count the fingers on his hands. John looked at the backpack set on the desk.

"Celesifer," he said too quickly for his own mechanics. His brain and lips may be disconnected but his mind still raced with whatever thought was quickly growing in his awareness. John pinched his eyes in a hard squint as if to look at that thought. He followed it with a wide eyed rapid blink. Trying to clear the fog from his mind? Unfortunately, the haze would last hours at that blood alcohol ratio.

"What did I say about getting excited?" Cewalski warned with a firm place of his hand, hoping his previous methods of persuasion still worked. "You're just gonna make yourself sick again."

"It's da ringy in da woods," John tried to explain as he looked around, saw his bag, and reached for it. His hand eye coordination was even worse than before. John knocked into the desk, slamming one of the drawers closed and jump starting the sheriff's law enforcement paranoia. Cewalski grabbed John's outstretched arm. He wrenched it behind the trainer's back but suddenly realized that his hand was empty. By the time he glanced up, John was already at the desk unzipping his bag. The lad was slippery than a spheal. Cewalski grabbed John's shoulder. Upon reflex, the trainer whirled around with a slight of foot that put him behind the sheriff. It would have been impressive if the twirl didn't make him dizzy and trip over his own two feet. John fell backwards and knocked the back of his head against the iron gate of the cell.

He dropped down into a sitting squat and pressed both hands into the back of his head with a suppressed cry of pain. What was he, a three year old with a booboo? Cewalski couldn't tell if the scene was more bizarre or pathetic. Either way, Rebecca was right to suggest he go in the tank for a night. Before John broke more than his pride, Cewalski grabbed the trainer's arm and snapped a silver cuff around his wrist. The clicking snap stirred John into motion again. Not this time. Innocent or not, it was for his own good. Sheriff Cewalski used the full force of his jolly weight to thrust John down to the ground. He put a knee to the trainer's back to prevent any more ninja like moves and pulled John's other wrist around with a snap of the second cuff. With the inmate safely secured, Cewalski leaned back and took out his handkerchief again. He patted his forehead with a wince and crossed his arms over his knee. Angel squatted down from his side of the cell, reached through the bars, and picked up Cewalski's hat.

"Well, isn't he just a mess," Angel commented with an adjustment of the hat tassel. He then held it up to the sheriff who gratefully accepted the offering. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

"Hardly, considering you practically waltzed in here on your own accord. That worries me more than our friend here."

"Friends?" John echoed with a wingull like swivel of his head from the floor. Angel put his cheek in his hand again with another smile. Cewalski was less than amused when he had to lift John back to his feet and threw out his back. Walking over to the adjoining cell suddenly became a two mile hike, and given John's balance record, neither would make the trek across the room. One twist of the key unlocked Angel's cell door. John stumbled inside, tried to catch himself with a backwards lean, and over compensated the effort. He fell backwards into the bars of the door as it slammed shut. The clang resonated deep enough to hit some hidden pocket of self-awareness. John attempted to pull his hands around to the front but found that he couldn't. It took him a few seconds, but eventually he turned his head at Angel in understanding.

"Me, a bad guy?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," Angel answered with a sideways lean against the gate. He glanced to the side as a loud clatter outside the station door drew the sheriff back into the festival. Babysitting was now officially his next gig. John closed his eyes and dropped down into a sitting position on the floor. He sighed with the remorse of a stolen wish from a set of blown out birthday candles. The moment passed quickly. His lagging mental processes finally digested Sheriff Cewalski's suggestion that they were all acquaintances. He looked up at Angel.

"Friends?" he asked.

It was a good question. Cewalski asked for a babysitter, not a partner in crime, and the only thing the two had in common was a jail cell. But then again, given the muddy sneakers and puppy pokemon look in the stranger's eyes, abandoning him now would only instill a shackle of guilt fit for prisoners not guardian angels. Angel smiled again before he too squatted down and sat on the floor next to his new charge. "Yeah, I'll be your friend," he answered. Or at least, for the next few hours they spent together. Might as well make it formal. "So, what's your name?"

John narrowed his eyes in thought, closed them, and rubbed the answer out of his temple. "John," he answered.

"Ok, John, since we're friends now, I'll be honest with you. I like to know exactly who I'm about to spend the rest of the night with. How much have you had to drink tonight?"

John sighed and rested his elbows on his knees. "Told fake sheriffs already, no drinky."

It made sense. There wasn't a trace of booze, brandy, or bad wine on his breath. "What did you take then?"

John defensively sat up straighter. " _Not_ a bad guy," he emphasized. "Was pixie woods."

Must be new on the market because Angel never heard of it before. John attempted to stand, fell forward, and face planted on the floor. The hit didn't deter him in the slightest. In fact, he used the floor to stabilize his balance. He then swung his arms below him and threaded his legs through in an attempt to bring the handcuffs in front of him. It looked painful given his size but the determination was fierce. John rolled lightly on his side like an egg. Something small clattered to the floor as he did. The trainer didn't notice while struggling to calculate the position of his body parts. Angel, however, cocked his head at the object. The familiarity of its shape drew his curiosity closer. He carefully leaned forward and picked it up. The object looked like the imprint of a fist wearing a metal gauntlet coming straight for your face. The deep blue knuckles starkly contrasted the silver lining. Upon closer inspection, flecks of gold glittered within each imprint. And judging from its brilliance, even at this size, it was the real deal. Not the cheap stuff. Angel's eyes flicked up to John again.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

Surprisingly enough, John swayed to his feet with the handcuffs now in front of him. From this position on the floor, his height became apparent, as did the pokebelt around his waist. Cewalski had forgotten to remove it in his panic. The kid must have made an innocent impression for the sheriff to forget proper procedure. The first thing Cewalski did during his own impoundment was remove all party pokemon. And for good reason. But for what reason was John here?

Angel glanced back at the backpack set on the side of the desk. Torn edges, tacky buttons, and several cable ports: It was pokegear. Angel looked down at the Cork City gym badge in his hands. He didn't have time to keep it there as John swayed dangerously in an episode of double vision. Angel scrambled to his feet and caught him by the arm. This "Pixie Woods" must have one helluva high, but then again, John's arms and veins were clean. There were no tracks or discolorations from using and abusing. The only thing on his skin was mud and enough bumps and bruises to make a checkerboard. He also wore a Cork City dojo emblem on his jacket.

"You a trainer, John?" Angel inquired.

John nodded with an enthusiastic but bashful sideways glance. Drunks boasted their achievements and druggies disregarded them. Only true pokemon trainers took their work to heart. Angel peeked into that sheepish look. There was thought there. Emotion: pride and guilt in an achievement unwilling bestowed but well earned. John struggled to speak but the intent to communicate was there. His words were childish and broken but filtered and purposeful as if he knew what to do and say but couldn't connect the dots. It was exactly as if . . . Angel quickly grabbed John by the shoulders and held him steady. The badge, the bruises, and the rambling like a lunatic, John wasn't drunk or drugged.

He was _confused_.

"You got whammied by a pokemon, didn't you?" Angel asked with a surge of excitement. John sagged his head in a grunt of relief. Finally, someone understood. Angel bit his lip and glanced over the trainer with fresh eyes. This was much more in his realm of expertise. Just what sort of battle and what kind of pokemon had John encountered? Renegade trainers, uncouth wild pokemon, or maybe even a case of friendly fire, the possibilities were endless, and the only clues Angel had were right in front of him.

John's body didn't tremble with shock. There was strength in his stance, just no coordination to channel it. He was lucky. With nothing limp, twitching, or rigid, he had avoided nerve damage. Angel switched from the physical symptoms to the internal and turned John's head towards him. His pupils were two different sizes. That was never good. John swayed again. Just how long had he been in this state? If breathing wasn't an unconscious function he would've been dead already. John needed a hospital not a drunk tank. And soon. Otherwise, his thoughts won't be the only thing scrambled. Never had Angel come across a case of confusion so bad that it regressed the victim back to elementary school.

"That must have been one helluva pokemon," Angel muttered to himself. And John one helluva trainer to face it and still have control over his bowel functions. But considering his current neurological state, that might not last for long.

"Is night time?" John asked with a squint around the room.

Angel didn't answer. He looked down at his fist and the Cork City gym badge still clasped within. It sparked a temptation demons not guardian angels pursued: self-interest. A pokemon allegedly powerful enough to pulverize its way through all rhyme and reason was one in a million. It deserved to be in the hands of a trainer that respected it. Besides, it's not like he had a doctorate in physical health. Medical diagnosis wasn't his profession. Pokemon, however, he could spin at the tip of a finger. Besides, they were locked in a cell with no one to seek medical help anyway. Cewalski would be back and then he could share his discovery. But for now, there was nothing he could do. Why waste a perfect opportunity for a chance to encounter a thrilling new pokemon? There was still time to save John from permanent brain damage. Angel grabbed John's arm with new vigor. He shook him lightly so that the trainer rolled his attention back around.

"That ringy in the woods," Angel quickly picked up from John's earlier statement, every gibberish utterance now a solid clue to finding this pokemon, "was it from the pokemon that did this to you?"

John tilted his head with a wink of his eye and sternly pointed a finger of correction. " _Not_ a bad guy," he informed.

"Another friend?" Angel corrected. John loosely nodded. The pokemon was closer now more than ever. "Celesifeather?" Angel guessed. What pokemon species sounded the closest to it?

John nodded confirmation but the motion stirred up his symptoms harder than a snow globe. He put a hand to his forehead with a hard squint and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes. Whatever light show danced within them carried more pain than pleasure. Angel's gut twisted. His halo dimmed against the sudden reflection of light from John's handcuffs. The bracelets became like a child's, too big and heavy for his wrists. No wonder the sheriff forgot to take off the trainer's pokebelt. He needed a blanket and a storybook not a cold hard dose of social conjecture. The two people that suddenly walked into the station, however, could use a double dose.

The welcome bell _dinged_ and the front door clacked shut. The visitors' boots scuffed the floor in the echo, hoping to streak the linoleum black. They strolled up to the barrier separating the office. One was much shorter than the other and compensated for it by taking the lead. He wore a black beret and pushed open the barrier with an arrogant flick of his wrist. A dragon tattoo crept up his neck from underneath the collar of his shirt and there was a persistent upturn to his lip from either an injury or severe disdain for everything bright and good in the world.

The second and much larger fellow dutifully kept to the back. Heavy drink and dessert rounded his edges but it only served to insulate the heavily packed muscle underneath. Their difference in stature would have been comical in nature if they didn't reek of bad business and foul play. A regular Rocky and Bullwinkle villainous tag team. Angel caught the first glance. He didn't have to know them personally to recognize where they were from and why they were here. One gliding step distanced Angel from John. He crossed his hands through the bars with a lean before the animated pair noticed the two together. His eyes settled and his tail swished sharper than a whip by the time they met eyes.

"Well, well, well, I have to say," Rocky, the shorter of the two began with a tap of his knuckles against the barrier. Angel couldn't tell if the muddled accent came from his lip or a fascination with mob movies. "You're finally starting to look the part."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Angel shrugged. Rocky strolled over to the sheriff's desk and leaned over the papers lying there. His gaze drifted to the locks, hinges, and any misplaced keys. It drifted dangerously close to one of the drawers that had more in it than staplers and rubber bands. Angel pulled the eyes away before they realized the drawers weren't locked. Curse rural folk and their trusting natures.

"And what do I owe the pleasure?" Angel redirected. He might as well have poured a glass of scotch into a crystal glass next to a fireplace because Rocky immediately turned away from the desk. Although, Sheriff Cewalski's tacky taste in personal decoration in and of itself was a natural deterrent to thievery.

"Despite how easy it was to find you, you're a hard man to actually _get_ to," Rocky said.

"What can I say, I like to show and not tell," Angel shrugged. Rocky chuckled out a sharp grin and strolled away from the desk. He made his way over to Angel, keeping his distance despite the iron weaved between them.

"Then you'd better start showing a little more," Rocky informed. "You and your prize pony made quite an impression in The Ring the other night, made a lot of people a lot of money. Too much to just disappear without a trace like that."

"Sorry but, my prize pony and I have parted ways," Angel replied.

"Oh, really?" Rocky glanced through the bars and into the cell. He pulled his scar tight in a smile to make the new skin change color like a skeleton's blush. He nodded at John. "That him?" John plopped down on the cot in the back. Even at this distance the fog in his eyes was thick. Drunk, disoriented, and dangerous as far as rumor goes. Angel casually glanced over his shoulder. John leaned to the side lightly before he caught himself and flinched back into place with a hiccup.

"I know your standards are low, but, really?" Angel asked. " _This_ is _my_ stud and the man who KO'd your captain in one hit?"

Rocky narrowed his gaze, walked closer to the cell, and leaned against the bars. He crossed his arms over his chest with a shrug. "Easy mistake," he said. "Hard to tell one drunk from another. Your boy's got a reputation for starting early and ending late. Didn't see the fight with the captain either. Probably a good thing too. I heard it was ugly."

"And your captain even uglier."

Rocky flicked a hard glance at Angel. "You're lucky I'm here only as a messenger," he threatened.

Angel leaned in a little closer. "And you're lucky I carry breath mints."

Rocky cast down his smile, snatched Angel by the collar, and pulled him through the bars so they came face to face. "I'd mind your manners if I were you," Rocky threatened. "The Royal Jewels don't take lightly to disrespect and you made them too good an impression to just walk out. If you're not careful, they'll come to collect."

"You know, for a messenger, you have terrible presentation," Angel said.

Rocky yanked him again so that the buttons of his jacked clacked against the metal. "You think I give a shit that you're a sponsor for a Ring fighter?" he hissed. "This ain't _The League_ princess. The rules aren't the same down here in the underworld." Another pull slammed Angel into the bars again. "You bring Hell Raiser back into the fights or _we_ will."

" _Ey_!" a voice shouted from inside the cell. Angel and Rocky glanced into it as John scuffed a foot against the ground and swayed to his feet. Half an eyelid covered his gaze but it was no doubt focused on the tension between the bars. He hiccupped again. The confusion now affecting his involuntary functions. Too much longer in this state and something much more vital would be next.

"I thought he wasn't a friend of yours?" Rocky inquired.

"I've never seen that man before in my life," Angel admitted.

Rocky narrowed his gaze but quickly glanced away as Bullwinkle suddenly shouted a warning from the barrier. They looked at the door as the bell _dinged_ with another entrance. Rocky quickly released Angel, and by the time his hands cleared the bars, Sheriff Cewalski walked into the station with another detainee firmly in his grasp. This one already sported a set of handcuffs. Cewalski's son came in behind them. Deputized in the same law and sweat as his father, he too escorted another rule breaking tourist into the office. Blood dabbled the collar of his uniform but not as much as the stain down the front of the detainee's face. Booze reeked between the tourists, that and a bad taste in judgement. Both Cewalskis looked up across the office, but it was the sheriff's face that swelled at the sight of a clear barrier violation.

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing," he snarled at the violators, "but you've got three seconds to get your sorry asses out of my station!"

Angel and Rocky glanced at one another through their shared experience in lawmen. This was the moment that decided everything. Did you flee, obey, or take out as many from the other side as you can? Rocky was smarter than he looked. He stepped away from the bars, glanced back at Angel, and passed through the barrier with Bullwinkle close behind. They swaggered past Cewalski and son, snarling lightly at the gleam of the gold star badges in their eyes. Sheriff Cewalski heard it. He still had one free hand and a whole set of zip ties in his back pocket to quiet it, but the tension was too thin and tight for John to hold his balance. He stumbled across the cell and fell over again. Angel winched lightly from the bars as if his halo turned to lead and dropped down on his head with a hollow clunk. His squinting eyes caught Rocky's at the door. They looked at one another, and in that silence, the message was clear:

This wasn't over yet.

Rocky and Bullwinkle quickly ducked out of the door and made sure it slammed shut behind them. Cewalski pinched his eyes in a growl but the station was already filling up faster than he expected. No sense going after the bottom feeders when he had a shark on his hands. A firm shove pushed the detainee across the office and through the wooden barrier. As if some spell was woven within the handcuffs and wood, the man suddenly realized the gravity of his situation. He thrashed in a wild string of obscenities and accusations that ended with his face flat against the desk. The sheriff struggled to keep him there without resorting to blows. He needed iron and quick. Cewalski pointed his chin at his son then at the occupied cell.

"Get them outta there," he ordered but his son found his own trouble when his charge lunged for his father's prisoner, hoping to get one last bit of revenge before the night was out. Rivals and their petty squabbles. Good thing they weren't pokemon trainers. Angel would have considered them an insult to the profession. The desk scratched against the floor as Cewalski subdued another escape attempt. His son nervously looked over at him but couldn't provide assistance until he snapped handcuffs on his own prisoner. Luckily, the sheriff wasn't afraid to use his bulk to his advantage. He weighted down the prisoner to a squirm. Angel had to give it to him. The old man still had his hat on his head. He couldn't have asked for a better interruption.

"Need some help there, Sheriff?" Angel asked with a misdirection smoother than the shift of his hips. The breezy words cooled Cewalski's cheeks enough for him to grunt out a smile.

"It's your lucky day. I'm throwin' you guppies back into the pond," he explained with a well-rehearsed wrench of the detainee's hand.

"You hear that, John? You can put on your swimmies again," Angel informed with a twirl away from the bars. John looked up from his seat on the floor. His eyes recognized the face in front him but his face was paler than before. Whatever was going on inside of him was setting in. They needed to move quickly to make sure it wasn't permanent. Angel used his wings to lift John to his feet and guide him across the cell. They stopped at the gate. Angel reached through the bars, lifted the latch, and pushed. The cell door swung open with a creak. Cewalski and son paused in the error of their ways. Had the cell been unlocked this whole time? No sense dwelling on the past. Angel quickly pushed John into a walk towards the barrier gate. He lifted his guiding touch to snatch his belt from the drawer and the pokegear from the ground. Left unattended, John ambled towards Cewalski's prisoner with an accusatory point.

"Bad guy," he firmly declared. Angel grabbed him by the arm before the perp bit off his finger. "Now, now John, let's not play with the sharks," he advised. He half dragged, half escorted the trainer across the station by the time Cewalski recovered from his shock.

"I don't want to see you two again tonight!" he called from over his shoulder. The ring of the bell answered him. Sheriff Cewalski sighed. His son shut the second cell door, making sure it was properly locked this time, and helped lock up his father's prisoner. The man spat and cursed with a charm not nearly as appealing as the previous occupants'. More cyanide than cinnamon this time around. With both prisoners contained, Cewalski sat in his chair, took off his hat, and pulled out his handkerchief. At this rate, he'd need another. Cewalski Junior gave the cell door an extra jiggle for good measure and pocketed the key.

"Looks like we're going to have quite the house party tonight," he said. Sheriff Cewalski laughed with a pat of his brow. The angel and the innocent christened the night. Now, he had a pair of drunken demons to keep him up till morning. God, only knew who he would entertain next.


	10. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 4A

**A Gift from a Friend: 4A**

The hour was late and the Boulder Pokemon Festival was in full swing. Vendors bartered and enticed the ever flowing audience of locals and tourists. Pokemon walked freely by their trainer's sides. The worlds between them blurring now more than ever before, and if the lights, lanterns, and live shows didn't catch the senses, the smell of fresh chocolates and candies did. Staying focused in the flurry of twinkling imagination was a challenge worthy of the League, especially for one trainer already glittering with bemusement. Every doodad and trinket perked John's interest. Angel used every method of persuasion to keep the trainer from getting lost in the crowd as they exited the Sheriff's Office.

"FluffnStuff!" John shouted with a joyful twist in the wrong direction.

"Cotton candy," Angel corrected as he guided the trainer by the elbow off of the sidewalk and into the bazaar.

"Lookie at all the peoples," John continued with a swivel of his head.

"It _is_ a festival," Angel informed.

"No. Not time for da'festies. Too early"

"I think it's time we get you some real help before it's too late." Angel glanced at the glowing top of the makeshift clinic down the road. There was no way a backwoods clinic with a sheriff acting as Chief of Command would have the resources to treat this level of confusion, especially during a festival they were underequipped to handle. He then steered the delirious into a small spot out of the river of tourists next to a row of gaming booths. John slowed his pace in the warm waters of sight and sound, forcing Angel to push him in the back and into the pocket.

"The music tastes funny," John began again, this time, with a sudden improvement of speech in exchange for a regression of cognizance.

"John, you're killing me," Angel muttered. The sensational flip-flop progressed his condition into a new state of urgency. And that wasn't the only thing pressing them into action. Angel glanced over his shoulder. Their recent run in with Rocky and Bullwinkle tasted foul from scar to sneer. Messages delivered by grunts had one thing in common: bad news. Rocky's threat still echoed in his ears. John couldn't keep much between his. He turned around to face the crowd and slumped into the booth. Angel quickly straightened him again. The trainer perked at the touch, awoke from a fascination inspired by the cut out decorations strung along the tent, and turned around. John looked down at the hand on his arm.

"Who're you?" he asked with a curious arch of his brow.

"Your guardian angel," Angel answered with a glance down at John's hands. They were still handcuffed. Cewalski forgot to lock the cell and unlock the cuffs. Going back to the station to have them removed was out of the question considering the sheriff's cast off. Toting John around, even more so. But the lingering restraints were the least of his problems right now. Hell, they would probably help keep John out of trouble.

"Now, I need you to stay _right here_ for a minute," Angel emphasized with a point of his finger. John mimicked the motion but lifted his chin to look over his guardian's head. Being an inch or two taller, he saw the crowd flowing behind them. Candles and brightly colored lanterns dipped above their heads like bobbers for the next catch. Angel followed his glance with a shake of his head. "Like Venomoth to the flame," he mused.

John didn't respond, but for some reason, the comment kept him still with a smile. Angel would take what he could get. "Did you hear me, John?" he repeated. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

John obeyed until a thought struck him so fiercely that he reached out and grabbed Angel's arm before it was out of reach. "Balloons. Did you get balloons?" he asked with a serious furrow of his brow. Angel moved his lips, unable to find the right words to fill them. Trying to explain the situation now was a wasted effort. He could play along but lying to the poor soul would be like lying to a child, easy and riddled with eternal damnation. Surely, the sin wasn't so bad when it kept him safe and out of trouble, right? Angel tapped John's chest.

"You know what, I'm on my way to get them right now, but you have to stay here, OK?" he said.

John nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes, but hurry, this colors smell terrible," he warned.

Angel stuttered out a laugh. He didn't mean to but listening to John was like listening to elevator music: harmless, mundane, and extremely tacky. Angel reeled in his humor with an understanding nod of his head. The mind was a terrible thing to waste but boy did it lead to some entertaining conversation.

"I'll be right back," Angel repeated with one more thrust of his arms to keep John mentally, and physically, put. The technique worked for Cewalski. Hopefully, it would stick like the gum underneath his wingtips. Angel turned around and hopped back into the crowd. John stayed where he was, and even if he wanted to follow, he couldn't. Family, friends, rivals, and lovers, they whisked past him, holding cheaply made and brightly colored prizes or homemade foods. Confections, confetti, and characters dressed to make even the lucid mind dance filled the streets. John softly laughed to himself. The lights and laughter pulled him closer. He stepped towards the crowd but quickly remembered his orders and pulled back into the safety of the corner. But as he did so, his heel knocked against a tent peg and he stumbled into the side of the booth. Both crashed to the ground.

Several pokemon plush toys bounced off of the shelves with a squeak. John rolled onto his stomach and came face to face with a tentacruel plush. He stared into its apathetic cotton stitched eyes, and they into his, until temptation won over. John reached out and grabbed it with both hands. The tentacles and silver chain dragged across the ground. Even more amusing up close, he took the toy with him as he crawled onto all fours and stood. To keep from falling, John whirled around, straight into the torso of another man who walked up behind him. The plush squeaked as it flattened between them. A bulky hand grabbed John by the jacket. The thick heavy fingers twisted the fabric over his fist, pulling the Cork City Logo over his knuckles.

"Yo, Boss, check it out," the man said as he held John out to showcase the logo.

"I don't know him, my ass," his partner quoted. John turned his head to the side, quite grateful to have somebody there to keep him steady as a rush of colors went by. All of this fumbling and stumbling was making him dizzy again. That, and the fact that shapes kept shimmering into different objects. Faces however, stayed the same, and the one approaching him was familiar. Rocky threw an empty wallet on the ground and walked up to John and Bullwinkle.

"My, my, what a coincidence," he began once more. "Out for good behavior?" The grunt looked at the Cork City Logo and scoffed, stuffing the stolen coin in his pocket. "And for a moment, I almost believed that lying _leechseed_."

Was he talking about Angel? If so, that wasn't a nice nickname. Nicknames were supposed to be fun, personal, and intimate. How did Angel known them again? Rocky crossed his arms over his chest and looked the ragdoll in Bullwinkle's hands up and down, taking extra special notice of the handcuffs around John's wrists. He ran a finger across his scar like a tongue along fangs.

"Your sponsor said you were finished, but let's be honest," Rocky said with a motion to the restraints, "guys like you never shake off the taste of blood once you get it . . . Come back to The Ring and we'll get you all you can eat. No mess. No fuss and you'll be treated like a god. That's better than what's waiting at the end of those bracelets, isn't it? So how about it, Hell Raiser? Feeling up to another fight?"

John proudly pulled back his shoulders. "Sensei says: Never back down from a fight," he quoted with a confident nod of his head. The two messengers glanced at one another with a snicker. Bullwinkle released John, his shirt still stretched from the rough clutch, and the trainer wobbled into Rocky's side. The grunt put an arm around his shoulder with a pat.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Rocky said with a pat of John's chest. "How about we take a walk?"

"I like walkies."

"Good." Rocky slapped John on the back, glanced at Bullwinkle, and sharply motioned his chin. The brute moved to the other side, and together, they pressured John into motion. Rocky lost his smile and gained a hunch to his shoulders as they entered the crowd. It was too difficult to walk three abreast even in the flow, so they shifted into a line with Rocky at the lead. He pierced through the crowd with a hissing gleam of teeth and rough shoulder bumping. Bullwinkle could have cleared the way faster but it was better to have the muscle in the back should John need a little motivation. Drunk or not, Hell Raiser didn't get his name because of a soft touch.

Rocky glanced behind him to make sure everyone was in line and noticed the tentacruel plush doll in John's hands. Acting a fool was ordinary in a festival environment, but a grown ass man coddling a doll was too much. One swipe snatched the plush out of the trainer's hands and he threw it off to the side with vehemence. John stopped. Bullwinkle bumped into him, and to the brute's surprise, he was the one who recoiled. A snort accompanied it, more out of surprise than effort, but it was enough to stir Rocky back around. A frown staked the entire line in place.

"I'm nod suppose'd tabe playin' with fishes," John announced. Seriousness creased his brow more than the pending balloon delivery, "and ur not goldeen."

Rocky flapped his lips in a sputtering laugh. "I have no idea what the hell that's supposed to mean, but you aren't much of a luvdisc yourself," he replied. "So how about we both stop playing around." The grunt grabbed John by the shoulder and squeezed his collar bone. "Start walking."

John looked down at the hand and sluggishly swatted it off with a totter. "That's not play nice," he said.

Rocky balled a fist but John suddenly looked away to watch a sparkler as it passed. Instead, of raising it, the grunt held out a flat hand. "Look at this guy, he's a complete joke," he laughed. Bullwinkle snickered in agreement. He then shoved John in the back to get him moving again. The trainer stumbled and fell, catching himself on the ground with his forearms since his hands were still restrained. His brain rattled like pegs on a prize wheel until it slowed and landed on enlightenment.

"You. You're bad guys," John whispered with a gasp of betrayal.

"Damn, right," Rocky replied. He held back a kick with a glance to the crowd. They were starting to take notice of their "walk". Changing tactics, he swaggered closer with a haughty downward tilt of his head. "You and your pretty boy bitch think you're real tough just because you won a few man to man fights in The Ring." Rocky squatted down to John's level. "News flash: you spoiled brats are only playing pretend. You have no idea what it really means to play in the underground."

Rocky jumped back as the trainer suddenly swung to his feet. "Not my pretty boy," John sternly corrected. "My friend. My angel." He lifted his limp arms into boxing fists, turned his shoulders to the side, and bent his knees in the firmest stance he had all night. "Come," he demanded while peeking beyond his swaying fists. "I teachy a lesson."

Rocky laughed. It was a sharp and bitter sound both humored and insulted at the same time. His scar thinned as his lips pulled into a snarl of a smile. Angel lied through his teeth. This was definitely him: the Ring's "Hell Raiser". He could tell just by the stance.

"That sounded like a challenge," Rocky growled. He glanced at Bullwinkle and signaled him to move out of the way with a flick of his chin. A hand then dropped to his belt. "Let's see if you're as good in the Circuit as you are in the Ring!" A geodude materialized in the air in front of him. The flash wasn't bright enough to awaken John's sleepy gaze but it was enough to draw the attention of several others in the street. They quickly pulled back to clear a space for the upcoming battle. It wasn't the first popup challenge of the night. John slapped several locations around his waist and up his side until he finally landed on a pokeball. He snapped it off with a lengthy wave of his arm.

"Okie dokie then!" he said.

Rocky hesitated. Clenched teeth held up his smile. Intimidation was his trade and, being a master of his craft, he could recognize posers from professionals. He didn't know why, but there was something about the way that sad excuse for a drunk held that pokeball that made his scar itch. It quickly passed however as the ball sprang open and nothing came out. John stuck his nose inside the metal. "Rooroo?" he called with a squeak.

"For the love of- _this_ is the man who earned himself the call sign Hell Raiser?" Rocky yelled. He glanced around at the crowd. They quickly lost interest with the deflating tension and unfamiliar name. John searched his persons for the pokemon that was supposedly contained inside the ball. Rocky wasn't going to wait around for him to find another. The challenge was thrown and there was no going back.

"You'll have to be quicker than that," he said. Rocky glanced at geodude. The rock pokemon smashed his fists together with a _clack_. The impact compacted his body in a _harden_. He flew forward with the force of a medieval morning star. John dropped a second pokeball and bent to the ground to pick it up. Geodude brushed by the tips of his hair as he did so. The miss curved the rocky bullet into another pass. John swung up into it with a triumphant " _haha_!" It ended shortly as a fist swung for his head. The trainer bent backwards to avoid it. He stumbled, sharply leaning to the left and right against the breeze of two more punches. The crowd stirred again. It parted as John danced his way across the street. He diverted a fourth strike, chuckled at the fifth, and spun over the sixth with a subsequent pat on the rock pokemon's head. Half of the crowd cheered. Rocky wanted to scream but he wasn't so easily defeated. If they couldn't catch Hell Raiser with their usual tactics, he'd use previous methods.

Geodude grabbed the silver chain connecting John's wrists together. He couldn't run now. The trainer didn't try. John used the rock pokemon's levitation ability to his advantage and swung underneath Geodude better than a playground bar. John spun aground with the counterweight. He landed on his feet, sprang from the ground, and jump kicked the floating target with both feet. The chain broke against the force. Geodude tottered backwards in the air. John landed on his back with a wheezing grunt. He rolled over onto his stomach and found none other than his tentacruel plush doll staring at him once more. John reached out, the cuffs still left on his wrists but no longer bound, and grabbed the doll with both hands. It was as if he never left the game tent.

Rocky scrambled for as many foul oaths as he could pokeballs on his belt. One released a grimer but Geodude wasn't finished yet. Fueled with the same frustration as his trainer, the rock pokemon threw what was left of the broken chain across the street. He propelled himself forward in another _harden_. Several members of the crowd gasped in warning. John had his back to the attack. He was hardly on his feet and his back was open and yet he rolled over the attack better than the hood of a sport's car. The split second spiraling dodge sent the crowd into an even louder cheer. It roused John out of his sideways lean, but as his foot shifted position, it stopped halfway across the intended path.

Grimer wrapped its sludgy body around the trainer's leg, fastening him into place. Geodude now had an immobile target. The living projectile hit John's chest. He managed to look up in time to catch it, but the impact threw him off of his feet. John lost his breath in the gasp of the crowd. There was a moment of silence as human and pokemon flew backwards off of ground. He hit the pavement with a grunt. Rocky couldn't have been more satisfied until Geodude floated up and John came with him. The trainer hung onto the rock's bulbous head until his feet came underneath him. Then, John released the pokemon with an aching rub of his chest.

"Sensei's kick much harder," John exclaimed, "but I supposed ta be takin' it easy." He then lifted his other hand to make sure the tentacruel plush was still there. Not a thread out of place. Perfect.

"Jesus, this guy's harder to hit than a ghost pokemon. What is he, a drunken fist?" Bullwinkle exclaimed as he stepped up beside his partner. Rocky wiped the spittle from his mouth, one finger running the length of his scar again.

"Even if you can't hit a ghost, you can still catch'em!" he replied. Still attached to the trainer, Grimer wrapped himself around two legs instead of one. John swayed with the clasp but quickly regained his balance now that he had no choice but to stand still. Every failed tug pulled a smile wider across Rocky's face. The grunt rolled his shoulders with a crack of his neck. "You must think you're funny, don't you?" Rocky insisted. "It'll take more than some fancy tricks to throw us off the hunt."

"Funny? Nots me," John answered as he caught several fingers in his shirt pocket. They pulled out a dried leaf from within. He might as well have found a gold doubloon.

"Of course he's not funny," a voice interrupted from the sidewalk, "just seriously _confused._ " A man stepped out of the crowd. He held a small black box in one hand and a balloon on a string in the other. A delightfully devilish smirk painted his lips. Angel walked over to John with a light shake of his head and hurt look in his eyes. "What did I say about waiting for me?" he exclaimed. "Did you forget about our deal? And I went through all the trouble to get you this-" Angel looked up at the balloon floating close to his head. John lifted with the helium fantasy but shame quickly bowed his head.

"Don't worry about it, Champ. Besides, I got you something to ease that headache of yours," he added with a wag of the small black box. "But first-" He looked down at Grimer, the wretched smelling mud from John's shoes finally given life. "Let's get rid of the third wheel, shall we?"

Angel took a few steps back and unsnapped an ultra ball from his pokebelt. He twirled it at the tip of his finger and popped it into the air directly on the release. The ball sprang open on its ascent. Angel snapped it shut with a catch and had it minimized on his belt by the time the materialization sparked off several hot cinders. A quilava appeared on the battlefield of candy wrappers. His unenthusiastic gaze stayed straightforward and narrow. Several spectators' awed at his appearance. A tint of teal melted the edges of the quilava's classic black coat and a soft shade of fawn rode his underbelly. Enough oil thickened his hair to keep a bonfire smoldering all night and the smell of sundown and beach lamps radiated from his skin. Angel lightly chuckled in embarrassment at the stale frown of his pokemon.

"You'll have to excuse him. Beats isn't one for entertaining," he exclaimed. Angel spun around to the crowd. "Does someone have some music? Please turn it on. It'll motivate him."

There were several murmurs from the crowd before a tourist clad in glow sticks jumped up onto the nearest speaker system with his phone in hand. "I gotcha bro!" he yelled as he plugged in his favorite playlist. "Set this stage on fire!"

A rock song suddenly blasted through the speakers. If Angel's charm and showman like behavior didn't draw the crowd, the heavy drums and electric guitar did. Blood pumping and spirit hyping lyrics echoed down the street, scaring country singers and pop stars into hiding. Angel saluted his thanks and dropped his eyes back onto Beats. The quilava already had his eyes closed and head rocking with the beat. The music accelerated, picking up speed and tension until the chorus suddenly broke and the volcano pokemon erupted into flame. Sharp thick spokes of fire burned from his head and tail with a whitish blue light that screamed almost as loudly as the music. Rocky raised a hand against the sudden wave of heat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled.

"I could ask you the same thing," Angel replied, placing himself between John and the aggressor. "Hard to have a pokemon battle without another pokemon. I just thought I'd fill the spot."

Beats opened his eyes and looked at grimer. The sludge pokemon quickly shrank off of John and retreated to the foot of his trainer. Geodude also found his way back with a deep throated grunt of apprehension. Rocky ground his teeth down to stubs. Beats burned in tune to the music.

"How about it messenger, want to take my answer back to the Jewels?" Angel asked.

"The only thing I'm taking back is the look on your face when I beat you stone cold," Rocky yelled. The crowd chanted for a fight. A finger tapped Angel's shoulder. He turned around and John presented the dried leaf. Angel slowly accepted it, John patted his shoulder, and gave his guardian a thumbs up. Angel looked at the gift, twirled it with a chuckle, and nodded at Rocky.

"Let the games begin!" he called with a lift of the leaf.


	11. A Gift from a Friend Arc: 4B

**A Gift from a Friend: 4B**

Geodude slammed his fists together again and barreled forward. No oily flesh or flame could stop him. The odds were in his favor and that's exactly why Angel taught his pokemon tricks beyond their trade. He called for an _extrasensory_. The oil residue of Beats' coat burned with an aromatic byproduct. Having begun since the middle of the chorus, an invisible scented cloud floated within the street. Geodude flew right into it and the _extrasensory_ heighted his senses. The fragrance seared his eyes, nose, and mouth. Even the heat of the quilava's flame burned his rocky skin before the two even touched. Geodude flinched and veered upwards. Angel tilted one way to avoid it, and behind him, John the other. The disoriented trainer snapped up with a wide eyed burst of panic. "Fight!" he suddenly realized.

"Glad for you to join us," Angel smirked. John came up beside him with a toss of his hair that could have ended a sprint. "Isa help," he declared.

"Wait, John, don't!" Angel shouted but the trainer was already out of reach.

"Go, Charles!" John yelled. He reached for a pokeball. The ground cut off his advance when Angel's attempt failed. John fell and hit the ground but at just the perfect angle to scrape his pokebelt across the road. A ball popped off and opened against the pressure of his leg. A small flash illuminated John's shadow and he sat up with a squawk, or rather, the pidgeotto that hopped out from underneath him did. Rocky snickered, but a pokemon was a pokemon no matter its entrance.

"Think two against one will put the odds in your favor?" Rocky yelled across the battlefield in reference to Angel's partnership. "Even in doubles you'll lose!"

Bullwinkle stepped up beside his partner. Together, they mirrored Angel and John. The moose threw out two pokeballs, releasing two nearly identical zubat. They chattered and hovered over Grimer as the sludge pokemon crawled his way back to the battlefield.

"Now, let's start this party with a bang!" Rocky yelled with a clap of his hands. Grimer belched out a poisonous gas so foul it tinted the air a smoggy green. The crowd turned away their noses with throat retches. Both zubat circled Grimer again before they streaked forward, carrying the gas on their wings. Angel heaved John to his feet, breaking more of a sweat in the effort than the battle. Such un-sportsman like tactics didn't deserve more than the narrow glare slanting his eye. If Rocky wanted a "bang", then he'd give him one.

Angel sharply whistled. It cut through the music, straight to Beats' attention. The quilava charged. He jumped into the poisonous haze, tucked into a _defense curl_ while he was in the air, and spun his flaming tail across the cloud better than the strike of a match. The gas caught on fire and exploded in a burst of light and heat hot enough to rattle the booths. It scared several bystanders into a scream. Angel turned his face into his shoulder at the concussion. John let it billow across his face, his head turning upwards only to follow his pidgeotto as it landed on the top of a tent post. He ambled over to the edge of the sidewalk after the bird. Spectators quickly scurried away.

"Marco?" John asked with an inquisitive cock of his head. "What's you doin' here?"

Both zubat capitalized on the distraction. They circled John, riding opposite paths to keep the trainer tightly contained. John glanced back and forth, spinning to try and keep up with them. Their chattering calls heightened into twin _supersonics_. Angel heard the screeches over the vigorous thrills of the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder in enough time to catch the sonic tornado with John at the center. The trainer leaned sideways and tripped over his own feet. He fell, harder than he had all night, cutting his head against the rubble on the pavement. His pidgeotto, Marco, shrieked with a stretch of his wings and jumped off of his perch. He dove into the fanged storm but the zubat split in a living _double team_ too fast for his comparatively slow wings to catch. Angel ripped off another ball from his belt. Blood had been drawn. The fight was no longer a battle but a war.

"Let's give him some help, Athena, and show them what a real goddess of the sky looks like," he yelled. The nest ball sprang open with a glittering expanse of fawn feathered wings. They reached for the stars, spreading far enough to push open lazy and tired eyes before they shrunk to proper proportions. Athena, the pidgeotto, joined the battlefield. As a female, she was larger than an average male but her plumage was dull and short. She compensated the loss with a bone chilling screech and snatched a zubat in her claws faster than a fly swatter, startling both the remaining bat and bird with her lightning fast dive.

"Not fair!" Bullwinkle howled from behind.

It wasn't nearly as bitter as Rocky's hiss as Beats cornered Grimer in the edge of the gutter. The two stood face to face. Both on the defensive and offended by each other's smell. Getting any closer would cause them both nightmares. Luckily, the quilava didn't have to. One clap of his teeth sparked a stationary _flame charge_ that engulfed his body in whitish blue flame. He burned into a white bodied black eyed specter that KO'd Grimer with just the summoning of its flame. The dilapidated sludgy mass deflated with a ripple of gas. Beats winked out his flames as soon as the grimer's eyes went white with intimidation. Such a powerful display burnt nearly all of the oil reserves from his coat. Any longer and he'd burn more than what he could spare.

"You useless pile of sludge!" Rocky yelled. He kicked the purple mass away from him. Grimer flopped onto the quilava with a splashing like slap. With skin still too hot to the touch, the burning specter revived. The fumes of grimer's body mixed with the boiling skin oil and ignited. Both pokemon instantly went up in flames. Beats flailed until he threw off the pokemon and incinerated the last of the grimy insult clinging to his coat. The sludge pokemon continued to burn even without the quilava's touch. Rocky quickly withdrew his embarrassment, nearly cutting his fingers on the edge of the ball as it snapped shut. And they weren't the only ones in motion.

Bullwinkle's stubby fingers dug fistfuls into John's jacket again. He lifted the trainer to his feet, scattering the flying pokemon wheeling about their heads. Doubles and triples filled John's vision. His head rolled from shoulder to shoulder trying to keep up with them. Bullwinkle attempted to jar him back into focus with a shake.

"Leave him alone!" Angel ordered with a turn. A stony hand grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from his pokebelt. Geodude yanked Angel around, grabbing his other wrist as he spun. The pokemon held them at equal height. He sliced Angel's halo in two with a glare. For the first time that night, Angel's lips dropped down into a resting glower. He clenched his captured hands into white fists, refusing to relinquish the balloon and box in his grasp. Both were too important. Across the street, Bullwinkle escalated his attempts at therapy. He slapped John on the cheek.

"Look at me," he demanded. John slowly brought his chin back around to his chest. The compounded _confusion_ now making it impossible for him to speak.

"Can't you see, he doesn't understand!" Angel shouted. He tugged against his captor but Geodude didn't move.

"Either you step up to the fight," Bullwinkle continued, "or get stepped on."

Rocky laughed. He walked up beside Angel. "Consider this your final warning," he taunted with an adjustment of his hat.

"And consider this my one and only," Angel announced. Rocky froze. Under the shadow of his hat, he slowly turned an eye to the side. He immediately regretted the decision the moment his gaze crossed Angel's. "Leave him alone," Angel repeated one final time.

Like a seviper caught within the predatory glare of a zangoose, Rocky feared to move even his lips in response. It was only the steadiness of Geodude's grip on Angel's wrists that quelled his shaking knees. He convinced himself that his enemy was immobile, and thus, not a threat. Rocky quickly glanced away as if he never heard the command.

"Do this, and you'll regret it," Angel promised.

Rocky didn't risk looking at him a second time. Instead, he transferred his bravado over to his partner. "Let's show these surface dwellers what a real message looks like!" he shouted despite the bead of sweat running down his temple. Bullwinkle drew out a smile as wide and stumpy as his fingers. He looked down at John who struggled to stay awake even at the brink of two fists. "Don't be too rough with him," Rocky quickly added with an instinctual glance to the side should the Persian beside him pounce. "He still needs to be able to fight in The Ring."

Angel said nothing and it was enough to dry up Rocky's throat faster than Beat's _flame charge_ on Grime's skin. Bullwinkle was too far to feel its heat.

"That doesn't mean he has to look good doin' it!" Bullwinkle shouted back. He tightened his grip, but by the time he looked back at John, his fists were empty. One twirl and two double takes later, the brute spotted the trainer behind him, swaying like a zombie. He snarled out a "hey!" and placed a heavy hand on John's shoulder. It immediately slid off with a defensive turn. If hands didn't work, than fists might. Bullwinkle swung with his free arm. He missed but snagged a sleeve and dragged John to the side. John slipped loose with a slight of hand better than rubber in water but the momentum transferred to his feet. He stumbled backwards and hit the counter of a game booth. Both elbows landed on it better than a night bar, rattling the three tokens on top of it. The vendor didn't dare take the payment anyway, especially when the customer that placed them there sharply sucked her teeth and slammed the air rifle onto the counter.

"This shit is rigged," she snarled. "There's no way I'd miss that shot!" She snatched up the tokens, tucked them underneath the black lace framing her chest, and dared the game master with a scowl. He scurried away down the length of the counter with a clutch of his red and white cap. The woman sucked her teeth in another scoff. "Fucking coward," she growled. Her eyes then flicked away from the moving target to the prize wall. "It's not like I wanted one of those cheap ass toys anyway."

And like magic, one of them suddenly appeared off of the wall. A tentacruel plush thrust itself in front of the woman. She looked down at it: hand stitched eyes and quality fabric. It was soft, adorable, and no doubt a top line prize. Whoever won it was either sneaky enough to steal luck from fortune herself or trickier than the cons of the carnival trade. Either way, she was impressed. The woman followed the extended arm to the man behind it. He was young but by no means a boy and looked at her with such seriousness that refusing the offer would have led to more persistent, and annoying attempts. Not that she needed another fan boy, but she did appreciate a good carnival inspired date night. She pursed her lips in a smile, slowly took the plush, and twirled a tentacle around her finger.

"And just _who_ exactly are you?" she asked.

John smiled, and even if he wanted to answer, he didn't have the time to as two gnarled hands grabbed him by the shirt again and yanked him back to his feet. Bullwinkle swung John around to the street, putting the woman at his back and out of sight.

"Hey, I asked him a question," the woman yelled.

"Beat it, Broad, he's none of your business," Bullwinkle snapped without even a turn of the cheek. The woman sucked her teeth again. It cut across her ivory white canines, sharpening them into fangs. Bullwinkle didn't hear it. He only heard his own yelp when a set of claws raked across his lower back. The blood didn't break the skin before a sweeping kick knocked out both of his knees. The giant fell, exchanging his grip on John to catch himself as he crashed to the ground. John swayed to a standstill and cocked his head to make sure he was seeing straight, or at least, keeping up with his _confusion_.

A sneasel stood on top of Bullwinkle with a look as sharp as the claws digging into his back. The grunt winced as she carelessly jumped off of it. He propped up onto an elbow and came face to face with the tip of a black stiletto boot. The woman from the gaming booth would have preferred to lead with the specially made steel point at the heel, but she didn't need weapons when her body itself was one. Long black leathered legs streaked warning to the upward glance. The sensual tension along the way pierced the faint of heart with each purposeful tap of her boot. If the point of her heel wasn't sharp enough to break the heart, the tightly laced bodice up above did. It struggled to contain her natural born gifts polished with enough natural oils and lotions to gleam with a rosy shine.

For the sheer sake of keeping families together, the woman wore a matching black leather jacket, although its zipper ran a little too low for children. One side of her collar was flipped up. It created a sharp point so the sableye crawling around her neck had a clear view of its ever changing targets. He cocked his multifaceted eyes at the one below him. The woman placed her foot on Bullwinkle's head, and the harder she pressed, the wider her smile became. Each fang grew whiter against the heavy purple lipstick coating her lips. The outer lip lines started in black to match the frozen nature of her soul, and faded into a slight shade of red along the soft inner skin where she couldn't remove the stain of blood from her latest meal. Top and bottom lip glistened as the woman pulled out a smile as twisted as the finger curling around a lock of her hair. The strands matched her lips from root to tip. One splinter of faith and the horns of that devil would stab even the holiest of creatures.

The woman leaned in with an arm over her knee. "I don't remember asking you for your opinion," she whispered. Bullwinkle didn't reply. If he did, the steel tipped heel would have impaled his cheek. But there wasn't much stopping it anyway as she leaned in deeper, putting more and more weight on her leg. The only thing powerful enough to stop the monstrous descent was a light tap on the woman's shoulder. John swayed to a standstill and she flicked her voluptuous curls out of the way to look at him clearly. He cocked his head in a thinking sort of way. There was a slant to his eye as if he wanted to tell her something important but couldn't. Those poisonous lips pursed again and the woman stepped off of her prey. She didn't bother to relish in Bullwinkle's retreat as she turned to John and traced his well-shaped youth in a single glance.

"My God, you are adorable," she mused with a cross of her arms over her chest. " _Confusion_ and all."

Rocky quickly ran over. Geodude threw down Angel's arms to follow. The grunt halfheartedly lugged Bullwinkle back to his feet. "Who the hell do you think you-," The woman turned around with a clack of her heels. Rocky froze, unable to move while his life flashed before his eyes. Angel walked up beside him with eyes also on the woman. Neither were stupid enough to look away. She smiled with a giddy pop of her hip.

"Now, that's more like it," the woman said. She strung her arm around John's. He looked at her, and rolled his head up at Angel. Curiosity lifted his brow. He then pointed at him.

"No, I'm still your guardian angel," Angel cautiously answered. "You can't get rid of me that easily." John then pointed at the woman. Angel hesitated. Apprehension pulled all humor from his voice, tightening it with a trace of fear. "and _that_ is Vermillion."

"Best Polisher of the Royal Jewels," Rocky blurted as if the name couldn't be said without the reputation, "She cleans up, _cuts_ up, and polishes every person and pokemon into whatever the Jewels want them to be." And that was playing coy. The woman in front of them was the best contract killer, bounty hunter, and thief the syndicate had to offer. Defiance didn't break against her techniques, it shattered. Pain and torture played as her muse. Her hobbies including extortion. Her specialty, persuasion, and murder the occasional indulgence. She was the one waiting at the end of a last chance with cold steel in her hand. She liked to get her hands dirty as much as her party pokemon. And here John was pointing a finger at her.

Angel tilted his head in a butler's like apology. "You'll have to excuse him," he began but Vermillion quickly cut away the rest with a flick of her freshly polished nails better than a butcher's cleaver. Angel's heart thumped as if it cut straight through the gristle and bone and into the wood. She wasn't merely peeved by the grunt's intrusion. She was interested . . . in John. Shit. Vermillion snuggled closer to her prize and traced a finger along John's jacket with a predatory glance.

"Where on earth did you find him?" she asked, directing the question at Angel. "He's precious."

"And very sick," Angel added. He slowly took a step forward and raised the black box in his hand. "I need to give him this or he might not make it through another round of ring toss."

The woman scoffed again, this time, a little less forcefully to avoid blowing John over. She straightened him out of a sideways lean with a tug of the arm. "If his situation was that dire, you wouldn't be pissing around the match with a hatchling," she said with a flick of her black lined eyes at the nearby quilava. They shifted to Angel. "Now, would you?"

The halo dropped from Angel's head and tightened around his neck. He thought of his other party pokemon and how quickly they could have ended this situation. Vermillion laughed as darkly as her lips. It ended in a sigh that rested her head on John's chest. He emphasized his pointing finger. Angel wished he could snap it off.

"No," exclaimed, catching his frustrated correction with a clear of the throat. "Not a bad guy," he lied.

And speaking of bad guys, Rocky finally melted out of his paralysis. "What the hell are you doing here?" he squeaked with a fumble of his pokeball. It dropped to the ground. Sneasel pressed a claw between his ribs to make sure he didn't retrieve it. Vermillion kept her eyes on Angel. She waited just long enough for the crowd to get bored. Several spectators made a hasty retreat in the lull and the DJ finally realized his station had been hacked. He pushed the glowing tourist off of his equipment and immediately new streams of people pushed their way into the road, oblivious to the doings of others around them now that the threat of battle was gone. John's eyes suddenly dimmed. His shoulders fell and he sagged where he stood. Vermillion allowed him to lean into her. She effortless carried the burden, puckered her lips again, and ran her fingers through his hair.

"Just look at the poor Babe," she cooed. "I don't think he's going to make it much longer."

"If I may," Angel interjected with a lift of the case. Vermillion scrunched up her nose.

"But I like him this way," she whined before she squeezed John's cheeks and shook his head. "He's so cute."

"I think you mean: vulnerable," Angel dared. Vermillion slowly aimed a sideways glance at him. A smile crept into the corner of her mouth, much like the sableye relocating from one shoulder to the other, but to Angel's surprise, she accepted his plea.

"Alright," she sighed. "You can have him."

Vermillion unhooked her arm and pushed John forward in the most romantic of cast offs she was capable of. Angel rushed forward and caught the trainer's fall. He sagged to the ground against the sudden and awkward weight. Both box and balloon finally left his grip. Vermillion crossed her arms over her chest with a pendulum like sway of her hips. It knocked Rocky's stuttering protests back down his throat. She then remembered the grunt's presence and abandoned her smile faster than her patience. "You're still here?" she barked.

Rocky jumped to attention. He glanced at Angel, weighed his options, and quickly slapped Bullwinkle into retreat. The two withdrew their pokemon and shoved their way back into the crowd. Vermillion's frown remained, the mere memory of them a bad taste in her mouth. "I don't want a single backwards glance," she ordered. Sableye accepted the task with a hollow scratchy chitter. He spiraled down her leg where he hopped off into the shadow of the crowd in pursuit of the two grunts.

Angel sat John upright against a booth previously vacated by the owner. Sableye wouldn't be the only one on the hunt. Locals took their festivals very seriously and it wouldn't be long until Sheriff Cewalski's hat bobbed through the crowd in their direction. Angel needed to keep his promise before that happened. He kept one hand on John's shoulder and used the other to find the plastic case on the ground. He clicked it open and held up an injectiion pen filled with a foggy liquid. One click of the epipen would administer a critical dose of an anti-status effect cure all, good for every pokemon status condition known to man. It was worth more than the average man's weekly salary and the last of Angel's personal stash.

"Sorry, Champ, but you can't fall asleep just yet," Angel said before he stabbed the pen into the side of John's neck. The needle pricked in a short decompressing pop. Angel didn't move when the medicine was administered. Nor did he smile until John fluttered open his eyes again a few seconds later. They brightened in a curious twinkle. Angel smiled and lightly patted him on the cheek. "Atta boy," he whispered.

"You know, I still haven't gotten an answer yet," Vermillion exclaimed. Her voice was sultry, seductive, and right behind Angel. Treating John had cost him his guard. Angel slowly set the pen back in the case. He kept his eyes on John's condition although his hand drifted towards his pokebelt. Two long silver claws stopped it in place. Sneasel narrowed a suspicious glare from beside him. Angel closed his eyes and his lips turned up in the slightest of smiles. Fate had a way of tickling his cheeks. With the grunts gone, he was the only one left to answer Vermillion's demands and refusing her now would lead to an unfortunate and untimely end.

Angel slowly lifted his hand away from his pokebelt and stood up. Sneasel disagreed with the increasing distance of her claw from his juggler but she didn't have time to complain when John suddenly sat up beside her. She didn't flinch but her ear did twitch in surprise. He greeted her with a peculiar arch of his brow that matched her own.

"I'd be happy to give you the details about our friend here," Angel exclaimed, "If only I knew them." He slowly turned around and lowered his hands. Should he die, he would do so with dignity. Vermillion stayed where she was. She was in a good mood after all. John would never know how his antics just saved his life. Vermillion crossed her arms over her chest and swaggered closer. She looked down from her heels at Angel, although, she could do that even if she was thirty feet under. Angel's muscles twitched lightly under the pressure despite his statuesque composure. It was enough to satisfy Vermillion's need for intimidation. Startling marble was quite the miracle.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. Angel visibly lightened but still fought the urge to put a hand to his pokebelt. "But I did hear that you made quite the impression with the Jewels," she continued.

Angel shrugged with causality rather than agreement. "A good fight naturally draws attention," he stated.

Vermillion glanced at the crowd now running shoulder to shoulder with them. The noise between the bodies hid their conversation. "Shove it," she said. "I don't care why you did what you did. Leaving is always a choice . . . if you accept the consequences." Vermillion pointed an intimate finger at Angel's chest. It might as well have been filled with gunpowder and lead. "We have a lot in common," she said as she walked her fingers up his jacket.

"Oh? And how is that?" Angel asked without moving a muscle. Vermillion's hand jumped up and grabbed the lower half of his jaw. Her grip stayed loose to avoid disturbing the handsome features between her fingers. She leaned in with a snarl like upturn of her lips. "We both like to fuck with people, especially those who think they are in control."

Angel turned his eyes to hers and found them a deep green, devastatingly beautiful like the poison on her lips. Even he couldn't stop his heart from racing as they slipped closer to his. Vermillion stopped a tease away from torture and flicked Angel away with a snuff. He shuddered but channeled his desires with the power of flirtation.

"Not your type?" he asked.

"I'm not into pure blood," Vermillion mused with a lick of her lips. "Too cold. Burns like bad vodka on the way down." She then looked down at John who held up his wrists to rediscover the silver bracelets he acquired earlier that night. He then looked at Sneasel's claws floating near him and held his wrists up to it to see if they matched. "I'm into the red hot kind of man myself," Vermillion explained. She silently popped her lips in a fantasy Angel was too embarrassed to imagine. "I'll take that sugar sweet tea any day." But today, she had enough foreplay to sweeten her tongue. She turned away with one last perk of her lips. Sneasel eagerly hopped away from John to follow.

"Think carefully about what you do from here on out," Vermillion warned as she walked away with her pokemon in tow. "The next messenger the Royal Jewels send might not be so nice."

Angel believed it. The next time Vermillion crossed his path, it wouldn't be on accident and she wouldn't be a messenger. Both John and Angel had been lucky, far luckier than they realized to come across her unscathed, but it wasn't the thrill of escape that put a smile on Angel's face.

"May I ask one thing before you go?" he called out to her. Vermillion turned to the booth next to her, picked up a treat on a stick, and slipped off a piece between her teeth. She was listening. "Why _are_ you here?"

"That's exactly why you're in this mess right now," Vermillion informed with a stroke of her tongue along her lips. She turned to him in a pose worthy of a biker's magazine and wagged her empty stick in turn with the click of her tongue. "That curiosity will get you killed."

Angel sheepishly shrugged but there was nothing bashful or innocent about it. He was guilty of her judgement. Vermillion smiled hard enough to show her fangs again. "Well, it will kill you _or_ your friends."

Vermillion nodded. Angel suddenly remembered his responsibility. He whirled around faster than if God had yanked him by the halo and looked down at John. The trainer sat with his legs sprawled out in front of him and his hands were loosely lain in his lap. He looked up at Angel and furrowed his brow until something clicked and he relaxed again. John then looked beyond Angel with a lean. He smiled at Vermillion, the silent conversation in his mind now complete. He waved. Angel wanted to snap his hand off at the wrist. Sneasel crossed her arms in a huff. Vermillion chuckled and stroked the pokemon's ear.

"I hope you make the right decision," she said. "Because I like that one." Her gaze lingered before duty turned her around again. "Oh, and don't worry," she added with a less than concerned wave. "I won't tell Hellboy that you're cheating on him."

Despite the way her hips knocked men off balance with her stride, Vermillion quickly disappeared into the crowd without so much as a brush of clothing. Tourists quickly filled in the gaps. The fight was officially over. Angel watched the street to make sure no ghost pokemon double backed. A flutter of feathers drew his attention away from it. Athena, his pidgeotto, circled around the pair. Angel followed her flight back to John who already had his own bird pokemon perched on his shoulder. The trainer admirably winked an eye against the second set of feathers as Athena landed on the other. Many would have flinched against her talons.

"Do yous 'ave my feather?" he asked the bird.

"I think you have both of them," Angel answered before he squatted down and adjusted the line of John's now ripped dojo jacket. "And I think it's about time, I held up my end of the deal. After all, what is a gentleman but his word?"

John suddenly became very tired very quickly, the drugs losing their effect in the heat of his adrenaline. In a spurt of defiance, John quickly lifted his chin. He glanced between the two birds and looked at Angel again. "Who are you?" he asked.

Angel's heart thumped with the damage his decisions had done but he managed to hold up his smile, weak and guilty as it was. "Where are my manners?" he quietly said, fulfilling the role of guardian as he should have from the very beginning. "We haven't been properly introduced." Angel then took John's favorite gesture of the night and pointed at himself in only the most professional of manner.

"My name is Liam. Liam Valenis," he said.


	12. A Man Out of Time: 1

**A Man Out of Time: 1**

God, did he have a headache. There weren't enough sloshing pints of ale or construction jackhammers in the region to produce this much pounding in his head. Each pressure point buzzed with alarm and a deep seated ache radiated from every joint in his body. Pokemon hangovers sucked. John slowly winked open an eye. He quickly closed it again against the sharp flash of fluorescent light. The darkness usually comforted him but he had given it so much already.

John raised his arm over his eyes and attempted another glance at the world. He needed something physical to hook his consciousness to because the last few hours fled from him, and the ones before that, were too foggy to make clear. Starting with his own body made sense. John began an internal examination: Breathing resembled bench pressing. Moving became marathons and there was a weight to his frame that could only be caused by the crushing burden of falling off of a cliff. At least, he hadn't lost all of his memories. That one was still fresh. But even with his mind empty, his body still remembered what happened last night.

John slowly removed his arm and sat up in a white linen bed. The blankets were stiff with hospital issued starch. His torso was much softer to the touch. He sucked in a sharp breath and held his hand up to his ribs. To the trainer's surprise, his fingers scratched paper instead of bandages. He rubbed the blue spots dressing him. His bandages and clothes replaced with a medical gown. Someone had even given him a sponge bath while he was unconscious.

Suddenly feeling exposed, and somewhat violated, John pushed himself up against the pillows. Both arms buckled in weakness as he did so. He slumped to the side, straightened with an elbow, and held both arms out in front of him for an explanation. A large patchwork of bruises sleeved the left forearm. A matching set covered the other. He held his arms out straighter, found the correct line up, and brought them together at his chest. They formed a circle. It matched the memory of something hard hitting his chest. John rubbed a gentle hand over his sternum. The tenderness underneath told him there was even more violent artwork underneath. Coupled with his previous treatment, it probably put his arms to shame.

Joyce was going to kill him.

And speaking of nurses, John slowly raised his eyes as a chansey walked out from behind a privacy curtain that cut his room in half. A small white hat with the hospital's logo on it crowned her head. She also wore an apron with a large pocket stitched in the center to mimic the egg pouch underneath. Odd. Didn't the Regional Board of Health ban the use of pokemon in hospitals years ago? Odder still was the pen and clipboard she held in her hand instead of a tablet. Chansey caught his eye and jumped lightly. She quickly scribbled something on her clipboard and shuffled out of the room before John even uttered a syllable. Now that he was awake, she was probably on her way to get a doctor. With that in mind, there was no point getting up. They would only tell him to tuck in again. Enough reprimands from Joyce Hailbringer taught him not to move without instruction during treatment.

While he waited, John glanced around the room. It wasn't his first time waking up in a strange place. He had passed out during training and been knocked out during matches so many times that being moved and waking up somewhere else was his usual state of awakening. A radio replaced the spot a television would be. It's silver antenna and large tuning knobs set the decorum back a few decades. Whitewashed counters and walls left the room as pleasant as the disinfectant used to clean it. John looked at the IV in his arm, followed it up to the pole, and then over to the heart monitor. It softly blipped with the digital workings of one of the very first Pong videogames ever created.

State of the art was an exaggeration for the facility, even with some massive upgrades, but at least he wasn't in a ditch somewhere shivering with a dewy rain for an alarm clock. Yet another memory not even unconsciousness could forget. John warmed himself by staying under the blanket and continued to conduct his own medical exam. Sensei encouraged the habit. When one lived on a mountain, sometimes the only emergency responder was your own intuition. John curled his toes, flexed his muscles, and softly rolled his shoulders. He pushed a hand through his hair. Nothing wet, sticky, or missing that he could tell.

John gingerly touched the saline drip in his arm. Without any casts, swabs, or weird metal protrusions, the drip seemed to be the most extensive part of his treatment. What a relief. All body parts and functions accounted for. But, why then, did he feel so uneasy? John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but instead of the usual darkness, flashes of last night screamed across his eyes in sharp bursts of color and sound. Lantern lights, laughter, and loud music, John put a hand to his head. Thugs, threats, and the smell of caramel corn. He squeezed his eyes shut but the lights only grew brighter. There was a person, a splash of dark water, and a sharp ringing in his ears. It came from trees that glistened and glowed like water under the sea.

John dropped his hand and opened his eyes. The visions stopped. Celebi sure put him through the ringer with whatever happened at the clearing. But at least he had the confidence that, whatever she did, it wasn't in malice. Her frightened expression when it all turned sour proved that. And as long as he wasn't dead, maimed, or mutilated, something could be done about it. He could live with the consequences . . . John rubbed his chest again . . . And the bruises. Someone knocked on the door. It was a curtesy considering hospitals often had a revolving door policy for staff members. Chansey returned, this time, with a friend. The doctor was casually dressed for her practice. Dark grey scrubs, a loose face mask about her neck, and a multicolored handkerchief on her head to purposefully clash with the color of the uniform. It matched the way her smile broke through the eeriness of the room.

"Glad to see you're awake. I'm Doctor Morris," she exclaimed. "I'd like to say good morning but, considering they're about to serve dinner, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression."

"Dinner?" John asked with a glance to the in-suite window. He knew better than to assume the passage of time. "Have I really been out that long?"

"Nearly twelve hours, but that's not surprising considering what you've been through. I was the one who first caught your case in the ER. I make it a point to follow up with all of my patients. Do you remember what happened last night?"

John chuckled out a laugh. "To be honest, it's a bit fuzzy," he confessed.

Dr. Morris walked up to the side of the bed and pulled out a small flashlight. John shifted, giving her permission to sit on the bed with him. It was every medical professional's instinct to perform a quick physical when they walked into a room. John didn't need to delay the process with formality. It was more polite to let them work at their own pace.

"We'll start with something easy then," Dr. Morris continued. "Do you remember your name?"

"It's John," he answered with the light shining between his eyes. His stomach flipped, and it must have showed because Dr. Morris clicked off the light and pulled off the stethoscope from around her neck.

"Does that come with a last name?" she teased.

"Hawkins."

"Deep breath." John inhaled, held it, and exhaled in perfect rhythm. "Good, again." He repeated the motion until Morris put the scope back around her neck, satisfied. She then looked at each of his arms with a light touch. Her brow furrowed when they came to his wrists. "On a scale from one to ten, how much pain are you in?" Morris asked without raising her eyes.

"Twelve and a half, but don't worry, I've felt worse," John smiled. Doctor Morris smirked lightly but quickly covered it with professional indifference as another doctor walked into the room. John smelt the sanitizer on his hands before he appeared around the curtain. He wore the classic white examination coat, fully equipped with fountain ink pen, pocket protector, and work badge that forced the eye straight to its barcoded title. John didn't understand the language but as Doctor Morris glanced over her shoulder, her body tensed. The subtle furrow of her brow pricked the new doctor's dimples into a smile. They offset the sharp rectangular edges of his glasses.

"Doctor Hannagan," Morris announced, her tone not nearly as delicate as John knew it to be. "I didn't think you were finished with your afternoon sessions."

Doctor Hannagan casually shrugged with an adjustment of his glasses. "One can never predict the duration of a session. It's always up to the patient," he said. The lens of one of his glasses caught the light. "I appreciate you coming so quickly, but there's no need to rush. I'll take it from here. I'm sure there's a man downstairs with an arrow through his leg, or something of that nature, that could use your trauma expertise."

"I haven't finished my examination," Morris informed, and yet, she still stood up and walked around to the foot of the bed.

"Don't worry, you'll be able to finish when we're through," Hannagan explained. He smiled and Dr. Morris passed in front of him without catching his eye.

"It was lovely to have met you," John quickly pipped in before she disappeared behind the curtain. Doctor Morris stopped with a soft smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, the one farthest from Hannagan.

"I'll be back later," she exclaimed. "Alert the nurse if you feel _any_ discomfort." Her attention shifted to Chansey who quickly accepted the responsibility with a firm grip of her clipboard. Doctor Hannagan tilted his glasses at the ER Veteran before she quickly left the room. He then stepped up to the base of the bed. Chansey quickly shuffled to his side.

"Those are quite the bruises, and from what I hear, they are just the tip of the iceberg," Dr. Hannagan began. "Do you remember how you got them?"

"The first layer or the second?" John laughed, but as he caught the doctor's smile, he quickly smothered it with a cough. Hannagan took Chansey's clipboard and wrote something down.

"The older ones are from my matches with Sensei," John quickly explained. "The newer ones are, well, a little complicated: I jumped off of a cliff and I think I got into a fight afterwards, but that part is a little hazy." John sheepishly scratched his head but quickly dropped his hand after a distracted "I see" from Hannagan caused more scribbling.

"Jumping off of a cliff sounds like serious business," Hannagan casually continued with a flip of John's medical sheet. "Are things at home going alright? Stressful job?"

"Oh, no, it's not like that," John awkwardly chuckled. "I was following a pokemon. I was home because a close friend just passed away. I'm also unemployed at the moment but the jump was an accident. That kind of stuff happens to me all the time." Dr. Hannagan stopped writing with a hard pressed word. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong," John nervously corrected. "Let me explain, although, it is a bit of a story."

The heart monitor blipped a little faster. Chansey perked her ear feathers to attention and quickly shuffled over to the monitor. She glanced over her shoulder at Hannagan. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, removed his glasses, and pulled up one of the chairs.

"Please, go ahead," Hannagan said as he sat in the chair and put one hand to his chin and the other with his pen at the ready. "The next hour is all yours."

John smiled but it pulled tighter than he intended. Something told him that the next hour was going to be very important but the feeling was very small. It was a tiny prickle of instinct too vague to be considered a thought but still, it made John wish he still had Mrs. Hailbringer's bandages wrapped around his chest. He had no reason to distrust the man in front of him. The doctor had questions. Hell, he did too, and they both needed the whole story to make sure his treatment was accurate. This next hour was very important. Life lesson #18: an honest living is the right kind of living. Dr. Hannagan was listening so John wouldn't spare the details. Plus, going over the turmoil of last night might help him make sense of it.

John relaxed with an exhale and leaned back against the pillows. Hannagan waited: true to his word, eyes fully attuned to John's every statement. Curiosity turned the doctor's glasses into the lenses of a microscope. John made sure not to touch his ribs while under it. And so, he began his story. Talking always made him feel better. He even managed to stay on topic and finish the tale in less than fourty-five minutes. The trainer was rather proud of himself. Hannagan then took his turn at speaking. He asked for personal information of which John was happy to oblige. He could only imagine the problems a blank patient record created. The doctor also answered several questions John had of his own.

Apparently, an anonymous citizen phoned in his condition. It was so severe that they air lifted him to the hospital, and according to Hannagan, he was lucky they did. Any longer and his brain would have been scrambled before breakfast. "A guardian angel", Hannagan had called the citizen. John smiled at the title. A bushel of scattered memories collected themselves into a more attractive bouquet in his mind. The thoughts cleared into the features of a person John knew but couldn't remember. Little by little, that colorful night rearranged itself until it blurred again and the sudden rush made his head swim. John dropped his head and rubbed his face with the fatigue. Hannagan's gaze sheared over the top of his glasses. With a final scratch of his pen and sharp upturn of his smile, he set down the clipboard. "Let's take a break," Doctor Hannagan proposed.

"Will Doctor Morris be coming back to finish the exam?" John asked, the sudden headache making him nervous that his body wasn't as well as he thought it to be. Hannagan stood and tucked the clipboard under his arm.

"I believe most of your wounds are superficial. She'll be back tomorrow and then I'll be the one to take over your treatment," Hannagan informed. "Now, try to get some rest. You've been through a lot." The doctor's cheeks dimpled in another smile. "Let, Chansey, know if you need anything."

Hannagan made a hand signal to the pokemon. Her ear feathers dropped. She then glanced at John and nodded. Her apron ruffled as she shuffled to the side and let the doctor pass. John lifted off of his pillow with a question he forgot to ask. "Tomorrow?" he called. "Does that mean-," The door closed before he could finish. "I can't go home yet," he answered. John slouched against the pillows. He then looked at Chansey. She watched the door with her hands clasped together, rolling them until she realized John was watching. She quickly gave them purpose by brushing down her apron. It didn't stay there, however, as John threw back the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed. He already had his feet on the floor by the time she hurried over to his side. John grabbed the IV pole and stood despite the two pink arms waving in protest. He grunted with another touch of his ribs but it was from the stiffness in his body rather than the bruising.

"Just trying to stretch my legs," John explained with a glance down at Chansey. He also had a few more questions he forgot to ask during the interrogation. Interview, he quickly corrected. It wasn't like he did anything wrong. John walked over to the window with a jiggle of the IV wheels. They rattled in a clatter that would catch anyone's attention. That was one way to keep track of patients, like bells on a miltank. John looked out the window. Skyscrapers pointed their ambitions up at the sky. A patchwork of roadways weaved in between. All led to a stretch of beach in the distance broken by buildings and rooftops, none of which he recognized, and yet, John felt a sense of nostalgia. If he was air lifted from Boulder to the nearest hospital, that must mean he was in Garden Cruise Memorial. John glanced around the room again.

A really, really old portion of it.

John had been a patient here two times before: once with a severe case of poisoning from relocating a beedrill nest, and the other, when he broke both legs falling down the side of a mountain as a kid. Surprisingly, it was the best time of his life because it gave him an excuse to ride the back of Aria's pokemon all the time. If only his latest ride could be the same. Despite being conscious, John didn't feel any more self-aware of his situation. In fact, he had more questions now than last night in the sensational maelstrom. The world was pretty simple when the mind was capable of nothing more than a kindergartener's reading level. Just what exactly had Celebi done to him? Or better yet, what happened after? Did she suffer the same effects as him?

John walked his pole over to the foot of the bed. A profile clipboard hung from a peg. Didn't Dr. Hannagan take it with him? If not, what was the clipboard with all of the notes for? John shifted his gaze to Chansey. She shuffled up next to him. Her attentive concern softened his eyes. "May I?" he asked with a point of the clipboard.

Doctor's notes were meant for doctors even if every patient had the right to know their own profile. Then again, the curtesy John offered was strong enough to bend the rules just a little. Chansey unhooked the clipboard and passed it off. John looked it over. It included the suspected rapt sheet of injuries he was accustomed to. Nothing broken, splintered, or fractured but enough bruise work to camouflage him during the day and keep him up at night. But there was one section new to his repertoire. John didn't have an education outside of a public high school and the law of club and fang on the mountain, but he did recognize the literature for _confusion_ when he saw it. Judging by the jargon and hefty paragraphs, it was a legendary case.

No wonder he felt like he just went twenty rounds on the matt with Marcus. At least he recalled something from last night even if it was only in the realm of pain endurance. Surely, one day, he would remember the rest. John lifted his eyes to the top of the page. His profile information was limited and sporadic. Anything that wasn't readily observable was left blank. Dr. Hannagan forgot to fill it in before he left. As if stimulated with the empty lines, another memory suddenly flooded back to the surface. A smile broke through the waters. It crouched in front of him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The image was blurry and smelled like chocolate and foreign spices. Neither were helpful with identification but it did contain a feeling of being at ease.

It must belong to the same anonymous citizen that called in the air lift from the hospital. Dr. Hannagan didn't mention a name which meant the caller didn't know who he was saving. No wonder the hospital had such a hard time getting information. But what about his pokegear? The EMTs could have easily accessed his information from it . . . if they had it. John quickly looked down at his waist. He wasn't wearing his pokebelt because he wasn't wearing any pants, but where exactly were his party pokemon? Where was his gear? John haphazardly placed the clipboard back on the peg. Did the orderlies tuck them away somewhere in the room?

The heart monitor blipped. It grew faster and faster the more empty drawers and cupboards John opened. Chansey cautiously glanced at the door with another wring of her hands as John threw back the blankets and looked under the bed.

"You didn't happen to see my pokebelt lying around, did you?" John asked with his head stuck under the built in sink. Chansey didn't answer. Two drawers and a few cabinets later, and still, nothing. Every hospital had their own procedures about personal items, but securing potential hazards somewhere safe was standard protocol, especially for wielding trainers. But then again, the last twenty-four hours weren't exactly clear. And as John looked at his spotted forearm holding the cabinet door open beside him, they weren't exactly peaceful. There was a real and serious chance that his gear, and pokemon, never made it to the hospital with him.

A cold hard ache ran through John's veins faster than the saline drip in his arm. The heart monitor flashed in warning. The line suddenly went dead as John tore off the sensor and clicked off the machine. He didn't want its shriek alerting the staff, especially Dr. Hannagan. Why didn't he mention anything about his pokemon? In fact, what _did_ he say other than a few "Ahuhs" and "I sees"? What the hell kind of doctor doesn't explain to his patient the reason he was there? John's prickling instinct rose to full blown suspicion. Like he could "rest easy" without knowing what happened to his family.

Chansey jumped with a bounce of her ear feathers as John swept past her for the door. He opened it and stuck his head out of the frame. The breeze down his back was less than comforting but the giant decal on the opposing wall stating "Psychiatric Care" was even more so. Several people loitered in the hallway, many similar to himself: equipped with gowns and medical equipment. Most wore robes, slippers, and heavier clothing indicative of a long term stay. Several other rooms were left open so that patients could float freely in between. They mingled and muttered to themselves but most wandered aimlessly about. One was deep in discussion with himself, but it was the chair he sat in that drew John's attention. Also, the end tables, wall paper, and lead paint.

He knew hospitals were bad when it came to interior design but _this_ was inspired by another generation. At least it all looked new and in good condition. Must be coming back into style. Still, it didn't make the ward feel any less than an insane asylum. Something suddenly tugged John's gown. He resisted a horror movie inspired flinch and glanced behind him. Chansey held the back of his gown with both hands. Her eyes begged him not to go any further.

"I'll be alright, Harriet," John comforted. "I just need to find out where my pokemon are. I'll be back in two flutters of a jigglypuff tail." Chansey couldn't stop the trainer even if she wanted to as he walked out into the hall with his IV pole. The gown slipped from her fingers. She drew her arms close to her chest and carefully took off her hat. On the very back, at the very bottom, her name was embroidered in tiny black script. Harriet rubbed her fingers over it, looked up with new resolve, and waddled after her patient.


	13. A Man Out of Time: 2

**A Man Out of Time: 2**

John held the paper tunic shut with one hand and his IV pole with the other and rolled down the slick linoleum floor to the rotation desk. The rubber slip-grips in his socks dug into his feet worse than Lego bricks but he managed to hold face for the nurse at the desk as he approached. "I'm sorry to bother you but I have a question," he began. The nurse looked up from her paperwork. He only saw half of an eye beyond the bulk of the computer monitor. "It's a little embarrassing," John continued, "but I can't remember-"

"Name," the nurse barked.

"Excuse me?"

"Name, what's your name?"

Routine flattened her face as much as her voice. It was as tired of him as it was her job. Curtesy for the profession kept John from being insulted. "John Hawkins," he answered. She slowly disappeared behind the monitor again. With a few keystrokes, the dial tone began. John felt the server hum to life through the counter. It whirred and clicked trying to boot up. While waiting for the connection to dial through, the nurse rummaged through her files with the chances of finding the appropriate folder before the computer finished searching.

"Boy, that thing's pretty ancient, isn't it?" John joked to brighten the interaction. It only earned him a slow shallow glance. The connection struggled and John tapped his finger against the pole. He took another glance over his shoulder. It was just fast enough to stimulate the nurse's professional antenna. She quickly turned her eyes down again before John noticed. The screen lit up her face with a search result.

"Alright," she began. "I'll have someone bring you back to your room. Its number . . .," her voice trailed off and her face became as blank as the screen. The nurse double clicked, scanned through the folders, and looked back up at John. Her attention went straight to the bracelet around his wrist. He quickly pulled it off of the counter.

"Show me your ID bracelet," she demanded. It could have been the air conditioning seeping through his gown, but a chill rose up John's spine.

"Oh, I'm not lost," he explained. "I remember where my room is. I just need to know if there are any personal items registered under my name."

The nurse suddenly found a change of heart. She leaned on her elbows with a push of her shoulders. She even managed the inkling of a smile. "Sure, Honey. Just let me get your ID number and I can look up anything you want."

John peered into the stiffness of her smile and the snaking curl of her fingers as she pulled on the lanyard to her name tag. "You know what, don't worry about it. It's coming back to me. Thank you, anyway." John excused himself with a swing of his pole but it wasn't towards his room. He wouldn't dare lead the nurse's returning frown anywhere close to his identity. The more she wanted to know, the less he wanted to tell. Hospitals weren't cheery places but this atmosphere reminded him of the newspaper articles regarding hospital abuse until the scandal finally changed the entire institution. The black and white pages practically flew down the hall as John tried the door to the stairwell and it loudly shuttered in the frame. Locked. Talk about a fire hazard. What sort of hospital was this?

John quickly spun away from the door. The wheels of the IV pole sharply rattled as the trainer made his way to the nearest window. He passed two patients fighting over a mismatched checker piece, the checkerboard between them tapped together from the last argument they had together. An orderly ripped the game piece out of one patient's hand and shoved the other back into his chair. A second chansey waited on the side lines. Her attentive responsibility to monitor the patients now a growing regret.

This had to be some sort of mistake. There was no way this fluorescent ethical nightmare was Garden Cruise Memorial. Such open public mistreatment would've put it out of business ages ago. John rolled up to the window. The sunlight begged to break through the glass and touch him. Being in Garden Cruise explained the beachy horizon but not the city skyline. Where was the boardwalk carnival, beautification breezeways, or even the Dueling LuvDisc Hotels? Those gaudy gambling casinos were so large that, on a bright sunny day like this, the nearest lighthouse paled in comparison to their reflective prowess. They were one of the biggest eyesores of the manmade world. They were unmistakable, completely, and totally . . . John pressed his forehead into the corner of the glass . . . not even in construction yet.

Through the farthest side of the window, he looked down the shoreline into a large open plot of land closed in by a metal fence. What should have been towers of steel, glass, and palm trees were neatly organized piles of concrete, iron, and dirt. It was a construction zone. Not a money making hotspot. John's wide eyed stare dropped down to the bottom of the window sill. No wonder he didn't recognize the skyline. The one he knew didn't exist yet.

Harriet finally caught up to her patient, and instead of wiping her brow, she took John's hand in hers. Reading palms were for psychics but heartrates were for healers. Three well placed rubs and the chansey felt something race into being faster than John's heartrate. If she didn't put on the brakes now, they might just come to a crashing halt. He was having an adrenaline rush of some sort which almost always led to an episode. Harriet looked up at John with a call. He looked away from the window, not at her, but rather, the end table beside them. She called again. This time, he didn't even move. Not a finger grasped her own.

Harriet's ear feathers bounced, acting as a medical dousing rod. Egg pokemons' instincts regarding sudden changes in body fluctuation was one of the reasons they made the best nurses. Chansey might not be able to stop a heart attack, but they could make sure that the right staff were on standby when it happened. And that "something" she felt in John's aura was coming. Fast. Harriet whirled around and raced over to the circulation desk. John's hand slipped out of hers but it didn't drop to the side. Instead, the trainer raised it and hovered over the newspaper abandoned on the end table.

John ran his eyes across it. His fingers trembled over the rough and difficult words. Was this article some type of special advertisement, a tribute from stories of the past? Because the current events blaring at him from the front page was history. Literally. "The League at Odds with the Elite: Will the battle end with just four?" It was a story settled by the rise of the tournament circuit decades ago. It had long since faded in time even before he was born. John shifted his eyes to the article's date. It couldn't be. Surely, someone had mistaken a few 8s for 0s, 9s and 6s, or was working on a play on words. John brushed his fingers against the layered edges of the newspaper. They were clean, sharp . . . new.

John pulled his hand away as if the paper had shocked him. There was no way: The idea was ludicrous, and yet, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Everything fell into place: the equipment, decorum, and uncanny Deja vu. This _was_ Garden Cruise Memorial Hospital . . . nearly 40 years in the past. The pressure in the sacred clearing when he jumped off of the platform didn't just push him out of mind, it propelled him backwards in time. Was such a thing even possible? A wash of memories suddenly flooded over John. They weren't the ones he lost but they did remind him of a certain Pokemon Ranger who technically, according to modern science, didn't exist either.

John turned away from the window so fast that he tripped over his IV pole. He quickly caught himself in the stumble. The swing of the tube and clatter of the wheels drew his attention to the needle in his arm. The very same one that chained him to this sudden and new reality. John lifted his eyes to the window and looked out into a skyline that he should have recognized.

He never cared for hospitals anyway.

Harriet, on the other hand, made its existence her life's work, and there was nothing but passion in her cry as she hurried down the hallway. The chansey bobbed into view around the circulation desk. Out of breath and alert, the nurse sitting at the computer didn't need any more to know trouble was at hand. "Who is it?" she asked.

Harriet answered with two hand signals. The nurse thumbed through the file folders and pulled out the corresponding room number. She flipped it open to the patient profile. Inside, there was no name or history, only a case of _confusion_ bad enough to make the patient a schizophrenic with Alzheimer's. Harriet performed another motion. The nurse muttered a curse and stood up so fast that the wheels of her chair clacked against the linoleum. "Where is he?" she asked.

Harriet moved around the desk again, this time with the nurse in hot pursuit. She motioned to the far wall window but stopped halfway through the point. A single unattended IV lay at the end of her haste. The needle drip slowly made a glossy puddle on the floor. A set of discarded hospital socks lay nearby. The nurse clenched her fists. "Mother-" a giggle from a nearby patient cut off the rest. The nurse rushed back to the desk and picked up the landline. It took a special set of skills to cajole the patients in this ward, ones that were assertive and had a firm grip. Harriet flinched as the receiver slammed back into the case. It echoed much louder than the bare feet jogging down the hallway.

John pressed a finger into the crook of his arm to keep the blood from squirting out. Pulling out the IV needle was a necessary sacrifice for a swift and silent escape down the hallway. Right now, time was of the essence. Literally. For a moment, John doubted his time travel discovery. Something may have happened to him during his _confusion_. It wouldn't have been the first time he injured himself chasing a pokemon that didn't exist. Maybe he mistook Celebi for some disfigured caterpie under another pokemon's _levitate_ ability, and when he jumped off of the cliff, he incurred some type of brain damage, spawning a fantasy based off of the stories Aria used to tell him. Maybe this leap through time was some type of safety net to protect him from the emotional trauma of her death.

John pictured it now: disillusioned by grief, he made up the entire encounter. Finding mystical ruins and activating a worm hole with its hidden power that landed him in a pond miles away was definitely a tale Aria would approve of. And it's not like he never had a dream warping fantasy of the Boulder pokemon festival before. John looked down at the bruises ringed around his wrists. He wasn't so naïve to think that they came from grappling. He had been restrained at one point last night. What if he had hurt somebody? An innocent he mistook for a pokemon in this fantasy turning nightmare?

His official diagnosis was _confusion_. Maybe he still suffered from its side effects? There was truth to _teleportation_ and _telekinesis_ with powerful psychic pokemon, but time travel? No wonder they stuck him in a psychiatric ward. Who knew what rambling spilled from his mouth? But if it _was_ true, if John was right, then he had not only broken the laws of physics but discovered a new species of pokemon capable of reviving the myths of legend. All the stories they told and more would be true. . .

John ducked into his room. He picked up the medical chart and went over the symptoms again. Disorientation? He glanced around the room. It wasn't spinning. John knew where he was and partially why, regretfully. Double vision? Two hands. Ten fingers. No extra digits. Next. Unbalanced? John stood on his tip toes, jumped lightly, and landed on the ball of one foot without so much as a waver. Hardly. That was the best trick he had all morning. Dyslexia? Clearly, John could read the text in front of him, and the nurse at the desk understood him enough to become suspicious. All of these symptoms he experienced, but not one of them depicted him now. John slowly lowered the chart and leaned onto the bed board.

 _Confusion_ , psychic attacks, Celebi, time warping: they were all beyond his understanding, but if he was capable of going back in time, he could also go forward. All he had to do was recreate the circumstances of the first jump. The first necessity: finding a mythical altar in the middle of the woods somewhere in the heart of a mountain that not even a Pokemon Ranger could find when she tried. Then, if he found it, he would need to find Celebi. Considering her rock collection and storytelling at the ruins, she frequented the place often. Finding the clearing would find her, eventually. After that, all he had to do was pull out the feather Aria had left for him. It reacted to the ringing in the woods as much as the ruins and was no doubt involved in the time bending process. But where was it? Probably the same place as his gear and pokemon. John had to find all three as soon as possible. The repercussions through time from his mere presence in this era risked the very future he knew. He couldn't stay here any longer.

"Feeling alright there, son?" a voice suddenly asked. John quickly looked up from the bed. Dr. Hannagan stood in the door frame. He nodded his chin at his elbow. "You're bleeding."

John looked down at his arm. Blood streaked along his skin and dripped from the elbow. He quickly applied pressure, hugged the arm close to his chest, and caught a glimpse of a white uniform behind Hannagan. It peeked around the corner, silent but present, guarding the room from any interruptions. John squeezed his arm a little tighter. Since when did hospitals need such close security? He loosened his grip when Harriet appeared in the doorway. The first thing she noticed was the blood on his arm. Her cheeks puffed out harder than a jigglypuff's. Forget about protocol. Her pride was now at stake.

The chansey charged into the room and shoved John backwards. He was so surprised by the sudden spurt of confidence that he flopped down into the guest chair without resistance. Despite the fierceness of Harriet's brow, she was nothing but gentle, although firm, as she examined the wound. Pokemon were banned from hospitals in John's era. He didn't understand why when Harriet diagnosed, tended, and treated his injury by the time Dr. Hannagan finished walking into the room. She did more for him in twenty seconds than two doctors in twelve hours.

"You seem a little uneasy, John," Hannagan began again.

"Not uneasy," John corrected. "Just anxious to get home."

"About that . . ." Hannagan adjusted his glasses. "Because of your condition, we're going to have to hold you for another 48 hours."

"What? Why? I thought my injuries were superficial." A charge pulsed through Harriet's hands. John's veins swelled against her fingertips. She quickly looked up at him with a frown.

"I'm afraid your fall, coupled with your _confusion_ , has left you with some significant . . . _internal_ injuries that require further examination."

John flattened his hand across his chest, searching for the warmth of Porthos' _force palm_ and finding none. His eyes shifted from the sharp rim of the doctor's glasses to the letters along the hallway behind him. It suddenly dawned on the trainer why he wasn't in a trauma recovery room or an outpatient cubby. This was the Psychiatric Wing. The hospital had filled in the blanks of his profile themselves. And he told the good doctor _everything_.

"You think I'm crazy," John exclaimed. His tone dropped as much as the good will surrounding him. Dr. Hannagan casually glanced over his shoulder at the shadow lingering at the edge of the door.

"You need help, John," he said. "You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here. I've taken a _personal_ interest in your case so you can expect to receive only the very best treatment."

Judging by the way Harriet squeezed his arm, John wasn't too sure of that. "I'd like to make a phone call and let my family know I'm alright," he said.

"Don't be so nervous," Dr. Hannagan chuckled. "This isn't a prison." He unconsciously looked at John's wrists. The bruises inflicted by the handcuffs practically glowed neon purple. John quickly pulled his arm away from Harriet and stood up. The motion scared her back a step. The doctor shifted to stand in front of the door as smoothly as the glare of his over-whitened teeth.

"I can assure you," Hannagan continued. "We've already reached out to everyone under your file. They know you're under the best of care."

John stopped. His eyes caught Hannagan's. The doctor's smile twitched. "That's funny," John began, "because according to the clerk, I don't have a record."

Dr. Hannagan pushed up his glasses with a shove of his short finger. "Rightfully so. All the information you gave us led to a dead end. The phone numbers aren't in service. There's no record of you ever being in this hospital despite your claims and the Valic Regional Outpost you supposedly worked at doesn't exist. Even your name and birthday can't be found. If you had been honest with us from the beginning-,"

"I have been nothing but honest," John exclaimed and immediately regretted it. He nearly slapped his mouth shut with his own hand. Affirming the doctor's already suspicious accusations would only dig his hole deeper. Hannagan pulled out another smile. His eyes glittered as if he had stumbled upon a pokemon sprite. John changed tactics. Words were of no use here. Using his full height to his advantage, the trainer straightened his back and relaxed his shoulders to their full breadth.

"Thank you for all of your help, Doctor Hannagan, but I no longer desire nor accept any more treatment from you or anyone else in this hospital. I'm getting a second opinion," he exclaimed. "Where are my pokemon and personal affects?"

John went for the door. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave," Doctor Hannagan said. This time, he blatantly turned to the lingering shadow outside. It materialized into a male orderly dressed in starch white, unshaved stubble, and a grin with too much pleasure in his summons. His arms and shoulders were thick with lugging around unconscious people. Too much bleaching from blood stains colored his shirt an off white. He didn't wear a name tag so it was harder for patients to identify him. Muscles stoked with sweaty workouts and deaf ears, he was imposing but unrefined. The orderly blocked the door with a Furret between his feet. Her tail swished in agitation and ears slick against her head. The pokemon was soft coated but her claws clacked against the floor, kept uncut to hook clothing more readily. Both pokemon and trainer were well versed in brute force, not bedside manner.

"I thought this wasn't a prison," John quipped.

"It's protocol," Dr. Hannagan informed. "After all, you are a suicide risk."

"What?" John yelled. The question pushed the good doctor back a step. He shoved his glasses higher onto his nose with a twisting grin.

"You jumped off of a cliff, John. We can't just ignore that," he said.

"That was an accident. I was chasing a pokemon," the trainer tried to explain.

"That doesn't exist!" Hannagan corrected.

 _And can time travel_ , John thought to himself. They really would institutionalize him if he let that one out.

"You don't have to be ashamed," Hannagan reassured. His white coat darkened with the shadow of malpractice. "It's not your fault. Grief makes people do terrible things." His reasoning, his assumptions, they couldn't be thwarted without evidence. "A serious bump to the head coupled with a case of _confusion_ can easily create mental disorders." He took a step forward, and this time, John took a step back. "Especially, if they have an underlying condition." The doctor grew in presence and stature, filling the room with a condemning diagnosis despite his own guarantees at recovery. John refused to give in. He planted his foot like he would after a challenge on the mat.

"I thought I was still under observation," he refuted. "To me, that sounds like you've already made your judgment."

Doctor Hannagan removed his glasses with a chuckle and rubbed his eyes. "I've seen enough to know there's no curing you. Not without treatment. It'll be a long and slow journey but I'm happy we can take it together. Stumbling into my care is the best thing that could have happened to you."

Like hell. "I want to talk to Doctor Morris." John went for the door again. The nurse rammed a hand into his shoulder, nearly turning him 180 degrees. John retreated, mimicking a stumble with his style. He touched his shoulder, glad not to have inherited Sensei's hot temper. The blow had force to it. The nurse wasn't afraid to use his strength, especially against a patient capable of giving him a run for his money. Dr. Hannagan lowered his chin. The lenses of his glasses caught the light and held the reflection in its frames.

"Let me clarify something for you," he began. The doctor put his hands behind his back, but instead of pulling back his shoulders, they accentuated the round hunch to his neck. "Dr. Morris doesn't run this particular wing of the hospital." His head tilted ever so slightly to lose the reflection and reveal the narrow slit of one of his snake eye pupils. "I do . . . And your case is unlike anything I've ever seen: total disillusionment. So confident, so lost in a parallel depiction of the real world. It's fascinating."

John lost his smile. He lost sight of Harriet. There was suddenly only the whitewashed walls of an insane asylum that were growing taller and stronger than the chewed nails of the patients within. Dr. Hannagan never intended to let him go. That putrid stare was fixated on him the moment his case rolled across the desk. The doctor would never let him go until his brain had been dissected and delegated to every apprentice and research lab in the region. And with no profile, no record, no family to claim him as their own, it was like he didn't exist. John was the perfect specimen to test, torture, and tease for the sake of medical research until his preservation date expired.

"After careful observation, I've come to the conclusion that you are a danger to yourself," Hannagan exclaimed with a motion to John's bandaged arm, bruised body, and all together pain tolerant nature. "And others." He then looked back at the door as another male attendant came into the frame. He passed off a white strait jacket to the first. "This is just a precaution. For your safety as much as ours."

John remained still. A subtle swatch of hair dipped over his brow, narrowing his gaze into a rifle's scope. Even without the keen instincts of an egg pokemon, the entire room felt the shift. John was going to resist. Harriet stepped back with a crinkle of her chin. Dr. Hannagan tensed. He quickly held out a hand to the attendant without removing his eyes from the patient. "Careful," he said, his voice vibrating with excitement. "Don't hurt him. I want him completely the way he is."

The orderly tightened his fists but John was already in motion by the time his knuckles showed. He sprang for the door faster than the untrained brute could see, but not for a pokemon. Furret met John head on. She attempted to tangle his feet with her body but they were already accustomed to the paws of a linoone. John hoped around her faster than white hot coals. The orderly may have the medium and tools for hand to hand combat but he was no artist. John made that clear as he flattened the man's sunburned cheek on the cold linoleum floor with a palm thrust. He then jumped over the orderly, his bare feet hardly making a sound as they landed.

They didn't make it far, however, as a weedle spat a _string shot_ across the hall. It missed the foot already in motion but caught the heel of the second before it lifted off in a sprint. John jerked to a stop and looked down at the webbing slung across his ankle. He then searched for the pokemon that caused it, but found its owner instead. The second orderly rammed into his back with a Rhyhorn sized _tackle_. Both hit the floor: John on the bottom, orderly on top. If it wasn't for two years of eating matt, his skull would have cracked open. It didn't matter much, however, as a hand pushed his head against the floor. The sudden 210 lbs. addition to John's back meant that the first orderly had followed the lead of the second. Both subdued the trainer beneath them. John wheezed out a wince as they yanked his arms behind his back. The pain he could handle, but the pressure on his lungs, not so much. All the training in the world couldn't strengthen an organ to move two extra bodies.

"What did I say?" Hannagan shouted. His voice pitched with rage. John couldn't see much with one eye against the floor but he could tell Dr. Hannagan was joining the pile up. "Here, take this," Hannagan said again.

One of the orderlies shifted. John took his chance. He lifted and rolled his hips, tossing off one of the men. It would have freed him if the second had not witnessed his earlier attack and anticipated rebellion. He jumped on top of the trainer. They jostled before John was subdued again, this time, hard enough so that he couldn't manage a wheeze. Someone then brushed up his hair at the base of his neck. He felt a pinch. The deep ache marked it as a needle. A big one. If John could speak, he would have told Dr. Hannagan that he didn't need a sedative. Black spots were already clouding his vision from suffocation. His heart throbbed against the cold hard floor. It beat harder and harder to compensate for the lack of oxygen in his blood. The spots suddenly filled with a pale color, hazing his vision into nothingness as the sedative kicked in. John's pupils dilated. His eyelids regretfully dropped to mere slivers of sight.

"That's good enough," Dr. Hannagan said as the trainer's body relaxed. "Get him up." The first nurse shifted his hand from John's head to the trainer's back but didn't remove it. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder.

"But he's not completely out yet," he exclaimed. He winced against the welt growing on his cheekbone from where John had thrown him to the ground.

"What?" Doctor Hannagan asked. His glasses slipped a little further down his nose. "Hold him up." The doctor moved aside as the two orderlies rearranged their positions and lifted John to his feet. The trainer sagged but they held him up enough to partially stand on his own. Hannagan tugged his lab coat and walked around to the front of his patient. His teeth cut through his smile as John managed to lift his head in recognition of a presence in front of him.

"Remarkable," Hannagan breathed. He tilted his head in rhythm with John's as it rolled back and forth in an attempt to look around.

"Isn't he supposed to be out cold?" one of the orderlies asked. Hannagan scoffed. Someone of his caliber could recognize a drug without a label in an instant. The sedative he gave them was pure. Of course, a mere orderly wouldn't know that. Dumb gorillas. But he wouldn't let that tamper with his fascination.

"Oh, he will be," Hannagan reassured with a sparkle of his eye. It would just take a little longer, but this was the first time he saw a patient last this long without going stone cold. He flashed his glasses at John. "What's pushes you to keep going?" he asked. "Why go so far?" He couldn't wait to find out. "You are truly a magnificent find," Hannagan continued. He pulled back, bounced on his toes, and tugged on his jacket better than a set of red suspenders. "Alright boys, let's strap him up and ship him out," he said.

The orderlies cast a sideways glance at one another. They then half carried, half led John back to his room. The other patients watched in giggles and chitters. Several attendant pokemon went to work, calming and guiding patients back into their rooms and away from the disturbance. All except one. Harriet shuffled out of the way as the orderlies spirited John away. She tried to follow but was forced back as Furret cut in front of her with a growl. Both suddenly moved as Hannagan walked into the doorway to supervise. He kept his hands behind his back, rolling the empty sedative needle with his thoughts. None of which, the pokemon wanted to know.

"You may return to the station now, Chansey," he dismissed. "We'll take it from here."

Dr. Hannagan stepped inside the room. Furret followed. Harriet closed her eyes in a flinch as the door slammed shut, rustling her ear feathers. The corridor grew quiet again. The rustle of slippers died away. Harriet turned her gaze to the floor and laid her feathers flat against her head. Her lip trembled and chin wrinkled. She bit her lip to still it and looked up at the door. It was closed. Now and forever. Harriet slowly turned away with her hands held close to her chest. She then took off her hat again and looked at her name. To leave a patient in worse condition than when they came in was every nurse's worst nightmare, but she had no choice but to endure it. After all, it was doctor's orders.


	14. A Man Out of Time: 3

**A Man Out of Time: 3**

Serving as the preferred chauffeur and chaperone of the founding regional family of Valenis, Mr. Bentley learned to keep his curiosity, and opinions, to himself. The rich had their secrets, and he, his own. Many of which, were forged in this very same car. But it wasn't so much a vehicle as a fortress, and Mr. Bentley took great pride in the fact that nobody could tell the difference. Transporting these secrets from one place to another wasn't just a job, but a mission. One that started five years ago, and five years ago, Mr. Bentley met Liam Valenis.

Rowdy, overly confident, but without a trace of arrogance, the young ace sitting in the back seat had changed little over the years. And it wasn't because he refused to grow out of childish entitlement. His suave delegation of life from one moment to the next accelerated his ascent into adulthood far faster than the usual boy. Far faster than Bentley would have liked. But today, the ace trainer currently staring into his own lap stepped out of the race to catch his breath, if only for a moment. Liam held a badge in his hand. No test or examination dispensed it. No name, logo, or barcode defaced it. What it represented was far more complicated than that.

What the ace held in his hands was a pokemon gym badge.

Mr. Bentley couldn't tell where it came from but there were no others to accompany it. At least, not that he could see through the rearview mirror. No box set or carrying case. Only the undisputed attention of a young man Bentley knew to be too ambitious to linger on a past achievement, especially one removed from a track record that put him on the road to the Elite. Objects and _things_ meant little to a man who had everything. The story behind them, however, could captivate him for days, and the story unfolding in the back seat was starting to feel like a secret.

Liam hadn't uttered a peep since he discovered the object in his pocket. Mr. Bentley made it a point to note every person and product that entered his car. Liam surprised himself when he found it, but it was the subsequent twinkle in the ace's eye that surprised the driver. Intense, quiet focus silenced him the instant he found it. Expecting everything, forgetting nothing, personal discovery, whether his or another's, was about all that intrigued the billionaire anymore. That, and pokemon. Such moments were private for the regional heir. Bentley was lucky enough to have witnessed several. 85% of the time, they involved the aftermath of a wild pokemon encounter. 99% of those, ended in a capture. Earning a master's degree two years early and inheriting a multibillion coin fortune came natural for a prodigy. Capturing a wild pokemon with one's own merit, however, was a prize worth more than a bloodline. And whatever captured the trainer now, was giving him a run for his money.

Mr. Bentley lowered his eyes from the rearview mirror and let his black driving gloves slide along the hand stitched leather of the steering wheel. It wasn't his job to pry, inquire, or advise, only to transport moments like these without cracking open the delicate packages inside, but when the secret currently incubating in the back seat was on the verge of hatching, he needed to do something.

"Sir," Mr. Bentley coolly nurtured. "You know there are very few rules in this car, but if you are going to start a fire, please do so in the front seat. The ventilation is much better."

"Come now, Benny," Liam softly replied without raising his eyes to catch the glance in the mirror, "You know I don't smoke."

"Funny, because I can smell the wood burning all the way over here."

Liam flicked up his gaze but Mr. Bentley already had his on the road. Nothing escaped that mirror even when the driver's eyes weren't looking. Liam rolled the gym badge into a fist and leaned between the two front seats. When he rode in the back, the barrier was never up. Safety and seatbelts were never his thing. "Got any crackers and marshmallows?" the trainer played along.

"No, but you might find some chocolate if you open the console," Mr. Bentley replied.

Liam smiled and tilted his head to the side with a nod. "Pull over," he said.

The black chrome lined SUV effortlessly swung into a spot along the sidewalk. "No Parking" signs quickly turned their faces away. The rear passenger door opened without assistance, and Liam hopped out onto the sidewalk, only to go back in through the front passenger's side. The door closed softly despite the effort it took to pull it shut. A few quiet seconds later, Liam clicked in the seatbelt. Mr. Bentley tapped on the blinker with a smirk pinching his eyes. The two really were on front seat terms. Oncoming traffic accepted them back into the flow just as easily as they had left. No doubt because of the flawless gearshift but the tinted bulletproof glass and military grade self-repairing tires also helped.

Liam placed the gym badge in the black gloved hand waiting for it. Mr. Bentley took it between his fingers and held it up to eye level to match his view of the road. Safety always mattered to him. "Cork City Gym. Congratulations, Sir," Mr. Bentley said. He passed it back to its trainer.

"It's not mine," Liam quickly corrected in a much softer tone, one the confidence of a celebrity would've never accepted. If Mr. Bentley didn't know any better, he would have thought the words envious but Liam Valenis wasn't known to be jealous. Nothing expanded beyond his reach, no possession or title too far to acquire. His skills as a trainer already won him a set of regional badges save two, five ribbons, and a pokedex that no longer _dinged_ with an unidentified entry.

True, the Cork City Gym badge was one he had yet to acquire, even after several challenges, two training sessions, and a year at the dojo, but both knew the honor would come in time. Geniuses in their craft always reached their goals. Patience also favored the ace, so why was he so fixated upon it? Then again, this was a pokemon gym badge they were admiring. Pokemon made the trainer as much as the badge. Showing just one of these out of a collection, had the power to shape someone's entire perspective on the wielder in an instant. First impressions, people called them. Liam Valenis, heir to the Valenis regional bloodline, multibillionaire, pokemon enthusiast, and Circuit Champion twice over was hard to impress, and even harder still, to make the ace so unsure of himself.

This little badge was powerful indeed, or better yet, the trainer behind it.

"My, apologizes," Mr. Bentley began. "But if it's not yours-"

"Then whose is it?" Liam finished.

Driver and passenger exchanged a smile. The gesture was the only thing Liam was more susceptible to than pokemon status conditions. He squeezed out any trace of envy with the curling corners of his smirk. "It belongs to a friend," Liam said. "I found it in my pocket just now. He dropped it while . . . being otherwise preoccupied."

It was a less than comforting thought considering most of the young master's _friends_ often referred to business partners that had nothing to do with the family business. Mr. Bentley was all too familiar with the ace's thrill seeking tendencies, bad habits, and new found curiosity in the dark corners of the pokemon universe. Being only a professional, Mr. Bentley drove blind on many occasion because of the ace's exploits, sometimes, quite literally, but at least, the front seat was never vacant. Together, they had secrets of their own. Acting the father wasn't his role. Neither was stopping Liam from doing dangerous things, only to make sure he did them in one piece. Luckily, this so called _friend_ had an effect on the ace that the others didn't. There was a genuine laugh in Liam's eye whenever he looked at the gym badge.

"I see," Bentley added. He paused to consider his words and what the answer might mean. "It looks a little . . . bent out of shape."

Liam rocked the badge so that it caught the light. A small flash escaped between the tree sap and mud. A corner was chipped. "The badge reflects the trainer," Liam smiled.

"Is that the only one?" Mr. Bentley asked with a nod to the badge.

If it was, this friend was either a very bold and courageous ace on the first leg of his journey, or something else entirely. Judging from the way Liam mused over the object without an answer, it was the latter of the two. No wonder the ace was having such a hard time with it. There was very little he had not seen or experienced in this life. Mr. Bentley turned his eyes to the road again. "So this friend of yours, it isn't like that other guy is it?" he continued.

"Do I detect a hint of disapproval?" Liam insinuated.

"The company you keep is completely your business, Sir. Although, I do have a few opinions about some of these so called _friends_."

"And by friends, you mean the unshaven, ill spoken lug head who ripped out the backseat of your four door fortress the last time he rode in it?"

"EXACTLY. It took three days to get that meat head's musky sweat smell out of my seats. THREE DAYS. Do you know what _that's_ like when you drive for a living?" Liam laughed and unconsciously put a hand under his nose to protect himself from the aromatic memory of _that_ friend, where he lived, and his gland output. Mr. Bentley didn't stop there. "And let's not forget the torn seatbelts, steak sized dent, and blown out window. Do you know how much force it takes to break this kind of glass, let alone what it costs to fix it?"

Liam laughed even harder and patted Mr. Bentley on the shoulder. "Aww, Benny. You know it was an accident," he exclaimed.

"As much as when that idiot flies across the hood of my engine the next time I see him," the driver fantasized.

Liam chuckled again and thumbed the badge. Its story slowly weighed his hands back into his lap. "You won't have to worry about _this_ friend," Liam informed. "He's quite the opposite."

 _He_ not _she_? Yet another detail to the story. "Thank God," Mr. Bentley sighed with a rub of the steering wheel. "Because I don't think my baby could handle it."

"I doubt he could uproot a bellsprout let alone a tank," Liam added with the badge's owner in mind. Both voice and sparkle dwindled. "In fact, he's probably got a heart of gold."

Liam rubbed the badge again before he quickly realized how close he was to hatching. He tucked it back in his pocket but the hand that once held it couldn't sit still. Liam rubbed it against the back of his neck. Biggest "Tell" the ace could succumb to, especially when he felt guilty about something. That angelic halo he loved to wear must have fallen out of place after bumping into this horns . . . again. Mr. Bentley slid the steering wheel into a turn. Silence was his best weapon, that, and the gas pedal emergency brake combo that earned him a street title. Quiet reflection filled the car. They passed their destination two blocks ago but Liam didn't mention anything so Mr. Bentley kept going. Where this secret would lead them, he didn't know. He was just happy the young Valenis had a compass at all.

Liam stared out of the dark tinted window for a while. Even as they stopped at a red light and a rush of people crossed in front of them, he paid no attention to the gaudy hats, flashy T-shirts, and daring last minute sprints. People were of little interest. But even as they cruised the glitz and glam of the trainer district, the ace said nothing about the Delcatty poised in the shopping window, or the trainers flaunting their pokemon as much as their coin. When they stopped alongside a street vendor selling helium balloons from a small little box cart, however, the ace suddenly sat up.

"Mr. Bentley," Liam said.

Benny sat a little straighter and readied his foot against the pedal. Such formality from the prince of casual conversation meant business, and business with the one and only heir of a multibillion coin family with a habit of making bad friends made good use of his gloves: the ones he used to drive with and the other set stowed away in the glove compartment next to his nine millimeter and pokebelt. The egg had finally hatched. "Yes, Sir?" he answered.

"Let's take a trip to the beach," Liam proposed.

"Any specific spot in mind?"

"Garden Cruise is pretty nice this time of year, don't you think?"

"Quite relaxing if I say so myself. Will this be a social visit or formal affair?"

"Neither. It's personal. I buried something in the sand and mistakenly left it behind."

This _something_ was starting to feel like a _someone,_ especially when Liam fingered his pocket, but Mr. Bentley was a professional and he would keep it that way. "I can get us a charter at the harbor," he said. "If you're looking for something a little more scenic, I'm sure we can reserve a spot on the next cruise."

"Actually, I'd like to get there as soon as possible. I'd hate to have the tide wash everything away."

The two looked at one another and a different sort of smile struck between them. "I know just the thing," Mr. Bentley said. His next words were hard to hear over the resonating beats of the private helicopter under his control a short hour and a half later. "They've accepted our hail," Mr. Bentley's voice crackled through the communicator built into his pilot headphones. "The director will be waiting for you on the platform."

Liam adjusted his ironically appropriate aviator sunglasses, turned off the copilot, and snapped off his seatbelt. Mr. Bentley hated the sound. Especially when he couldn't prevent it. The pilot could do little more than a double take without jostling his free roaming passenger with an intervention. "What are you doing?" he yelled.

"This is an emergency medical pad," Liam replied. "We have to clear it as soon as possible for incoming air lifts. After all, who are we to get in the way of saving a life? Strictly stop and drop for all other vehicles."

Mr. Bentley felt the wink behind those glasses. He wanted to slap it away from him in pure disgust but the only thing that slapped open was the cabin door. That bastard was ditching him.

"See you in a few!" Liam smiled before he took off the helmet connecting him to Benny's furious protests. The landing gear barely touched the ground before the ace jumped out onto the landing pad. He slapped the hull, and with hasty motions from the ground crew, Bentley had no choice but to take off when his passenger was clear. Liam jogged away from the helicopter. The blades whipped up his fitted suit but not nearly as much as the clothes of Garden Cruise Memorial Hospital's acting director, Michael Bernstein, waiting at the edge of the platform. The director nervously held his toupee in place but it was useless against the relentless pounding waves of air. Liam hid a chuckle under the beats as Director Bernstein's tie slapped it's wearer in the face.

"It's good to see you again Mr. Valenis," Bernstein shouted with a claw of the tie from his lips. It was hard enough to talk over the rhythmic pounding without obstruction.

"Thank you for accommodating me on such short notice," Liam shouted back as he picked up the director halfway across the helipad. "I understand you're a busy man so I'll try to be the lightest burden on your shoulders today."

The two cleared the landing pad and Liam was the first to stand up straight. He turned and waved at Bentley. The ensuing glare cut another nick in his halo. Liam steadied the resulting wobble with a touch of his head. He shaded his eyes from the sun and watched the chopper lift off of the platform. Mr. Bentley wasted no time finding the nearest high rise with a landing pad. For a bodyguard, he wasn't pushy but he did require a line of sight. Probably because he was an excellent marksman. More likely because he thought about shooting the ace himself on more than one occasion. Liam counted the heavy beats. He had thirty, maybe forty minutes to find John and complete his task before Benny parked the helicopter and ran him down on foot. As such, he needed to keep bull shitting with the boss to a minimum.

"I'm glad to see you're doing alright," Director Bernstein picked up. "When I received your call, I was worried you caught another status condition."

"I'm actually here to visit a friend," Liam explained as he led the director back into the hospital stairwell.

"I'm sorry to hear that, but rest assured, Garden Cruise Memorial is one of the best hospitals in the region. I'll do everything I can to make sure you and your friend are as comfortable as possible."

"I appreciate that. I trust you'll take care of us, but there is something more I'd like to ask of you."

"Anything!"

"My friend isn't big on hospitals, or handouts for that matter. A little privacy can go a long way."

"That won't be a problem."

Of course it wouldn't. Privacy was a hospital's bread and butter, especially for wealthy donors who frequented them on a regular basis. And when one of those included an overzealous ace with an energy susceptibility level as high as Liam's, it was one trust fund you didn't want to lose. The cost of his anti-status CureAll epipens alone paid the power bill for a year. Plus, there wasn't much the doctor could do for Liam because the ace didn't know much about this so called friend's condition anyway. The last time they saw each other was when the EMT's strapped John into the airlift after an anonymous citizen, who knew exactly what to say and when, phoned in the emergency.

Liam didn't want the whole world knowing that one of the biggest celebrities of the region was arrested at a pokemon festival for instigating an over the top pokemon battle to avoid the repercussions of winning a series of illegal MMA fights in the criminal underground. It wasn't but three minutes after the EMT's took over that the air lift took off without another goodbye. Although, in the time in-between, John did manage a cock of his head at the ace before the cabin door closed, confused as to why his guardian angel wasn't coming along.

Liam loosened the collar of his jacket, although it didn't stop the fallen halo from burning his neck. Having left the director several floors ago, he walked into the trauma ward. _Confusion_ as bad as John's warranted immediate response. This was where they would've taken him. Working quickly and quietly was the best way through this. Just a quick check in to make sure John was alright, return the badge, and retire as Guardian Angel for good. There was no room for such a title in his exploits. Some time passed between John's arrival and his own, but there was a chance the trainer was still here. Room after room, Liam searched and he found a hook in a toe, two table saw accidents, and one hand in a toaster, but no John. He turned into the last doorway and stopped, trying not to let his surprise ruin his poise. A man with a cast on both arms and legs lay in the bed. He was so high on pain medications that Liam wasn't sure the man saw him appear.

Better keep it that way.

Liam continued down the hall. He was naïve to think that John would still be here. There were casts, bandages, and beeping sirens down the entire ward. _Confusion_ was serious but stabilizing a mental injury didn't take much time. Calming the brain from pain and or function was easy. The hospital had a whole pharmacy suited for the task. In fact, John may have already been released. He was a resilient fellow. He was probably on his way home right now thinking last night all just a bad hangover. Liam rubbed his neck again. Double checking wouldn't hurt. But inquiring about a patient that might have already left the hospital also meant asking very specific questions, which meant giving specific answers, and shedding more light onto Liam's already shady business. He hoped to avoid such a thing at all costs but the halo around his neck was starting to cut into muscle.

The question now: How to find somebody you didn't know? Sure, he snuck a peek inside John's wallet while waiting for the EMT's in Boulder, but how could he be sure that John was John's real name? The pokemon license he found in that muddied buttoned bag was obviously a fake. The emblems were wrong, barcode too long, and mismatched colors against original prints. Although, in retrospect, John's license had some of the best fraudulent water marking Liam had ever seen. The dates from issue, expiration, and birthdate, however, were so farfetched that there's no way they were believable. John was either a lousy criminal or just as confused during the ID forgery as the festival.

Maybe the kid really was on drugs.

Liam turned for the nurses' station with hope that he could discover something, but that hope was dwindling quickly. Tracking John down by arrival time wouldn't help. Dozens of patients moved through the ER every hour. The only thing the ace had going for him was the uniqueness of John's case. A young male under thirty, tall as a weed, who smelled like wet dirt, and insisted on a ringing in his ears was hard to forget, especially when he had a tendency of calling everyone out on their moral character. Health practitioners didn't break their privacy policies easily but good old fashioned Valenis family charm often did the trick. A little wink, smile, fake concern, and he'd get the information he needed. There was no time for proper seduction with Benny on the prowl but luckily, the ace's silent noctowl stride was just as effective at catching wild pokemon as it was women. And this time, it almost blew his entire operation.

Liam skirted to the side, narrowly avoiding the gossip bubble blowing up between two nurses at the circulation desk. With a single pivot of his heel, he leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone, making sure to keep his eyes down on his excuse and ear towards the desk. Harbingers of daily gossip, nothing passed a nurse's ears. From patients, protocol, to doctors, they were silent sponges of everything and anything that passed through their rotations. Privacy polices didn't exist between one set of scrubs and the next. Purely for safety reasons, of course. No one would want to walk into a routine stripper's suite without at least a little forewarning.

"109 tried hitting on me again during his bandage change," the first nurse sighed, burden by the affliction of popularity.

"That's shoe fetish guy, right?" the second added with a click of her screen to bring up the profile.

"No. He's moved to 407. This is Mr. Moustache, with the accent."

"Oh, you mean Half Curl? _Ugh_ , I'd take Shoe Fetish Guy any day. At least, he's not creepy."

Liam pursed a smile. He shuddered to think of the damage one's ego would receive if they were privy to such talk.

"Tell me about it. Lately, I've only gotten the weirdos and crazies."

"That's cuz it's a full moon week and all the wackos are out."

"You aren't kidding." There was a brief moment of silence. Probably the result of a sideways glance from one of the nurses, signaling that they were about to dive deeper into the depths of scandal.

"Speaking of crazies . . . have you seen Brawler yet?"

"Who?"

"Brawler: staggered gait, slur, disorientation, moved to the psych ward for mental evaluation because of a heavy case of _confusion_."

"Oh, I remember him: Cute. Sweet as can be but too childish for me."

"That's because you don't know the details."

There was another pause. This time, a roll of the chair filled in the silence. Liam lifted his eyes from his phone. Those symptoms and peculiar duel image of hero and villain, it had to be John.

"Jenny helped clean him up," the nursed continued with the air of indulgence on her breath. "He's a therapeutic nightmare, but underneath all those bumps and bruises, she said he's freaking gorgeous. His chest was even professionally wrapped, and not the way we do it. The technique was old school." Liam lightly shook his head. Kids and their lack of historical culture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out John's Cork City gym badge. The correct term they were looking for was, traditional.

"If he's a fighter or martial artist then it would explain his condition," the second nurse added. "Getting knocked around too many times makes most boxers and MMA nuts extremely susceptible to psychic side effects. It would definitely make a _confuse ray_ feel like a _hyper beam_."

"But that's not even the best part." Something rustled as the nurse turned her back to the public. "Jenny said that they had to cut off a set of broken handcuffs from his wrists . . . and they weren't the fuzzy kind."

There was no mistaking it now. It was John. A giddy gasp scooted closer to the nurse's leg. "Shut. Up."

"So what do you think he is: boxer or bad boy?" the nurse teased with a bite of her lip.

"Like I care. If he's as hot as you say he is, I'll let him knock me around no matter what his profession. What room is he in?"

"712."

Liam tucked the phone back into his pocket. He stepped away from the wall with a glance towards the nearest stairwell.

"Jenny! Speak of the devil, we were just talking about you and your boy." Liam quickly turned towards the vending machine with another pivot.

"Who?" Jenny, the new addition asked as she passed off some file folders to the others.

"Tall, dark, and dangerous."

"Oh, you mean Brawler." Jenny leaned over the desk so fast that she pulled in the other two faster than a zip tie. "You won't believe it. The first thing he does after waking up is knock Shane flat on his ass."

"God, I would have loved to see that," the first squealed. "I have to see him now."

"Good luck with that. Hannagan did his 'evaluation' this morning. He's transferring him to the Attic."

"Where?"

"Shit girl, don't you get around?" Her voice was softer but harsher than before as if this particular branch of gossip was taboo even amongst themselves. "Those stuffy padded rooms on the psych ward where you throw your crazy cousin to live so the rest of the family can't see him."

"Damn."

"Damn, straight. Don't expect to see Brawler again."

"Except in a wheel chair with a mouthful of drool."

"Hell, as long as he keeps that body, I don't care."

"You've got problems."

"But why is he going there?"

"The _confusion_ must have left some permanent damage. The poor kid thinks he was transported by some strange new species of pokemon."

"Like _teleported_ or through time?"

"Girl. You watch too many si-fi movies."

Liam couldn't bear to hear anymore. He had to loosen the noose tightening around his neck. He quickly stepped away from the wall. A legal set of handcuffs, sketchy identity, even sketchier doctors, and clues to a violent impoundment with no inclination of notifying the police of any of it, John was in more trouble than he realized, coherent or not. But then again, it's possible he deserved it. There was no telling what kind of life John lived to get him to this point. Hell, they met in jail, but then again, Liam had his own reasons for being there. It must have been his title but Liam felt responsible. He couldn't forget John's unfiltered concern, his raw trust in a stranger that led to a fearless battle against an enemy that wasn't his own. Liam had to repay such loyalty, even if it meant skirting the law a little. Liam adjusted the tailored ends of his fitted jacket and tossed his hair lightly.

Luckily, skirting the law without getting caught was his favorite past time.

The ace swung out in a wide arch for the circulation desk to mask his location. The nurse sitting at the computer noticed him first. Her eyes widened, jaw dropped, and she slapped her fellow nurse harder than her stare. It cut off the latest train of gossip faster than the footsteps of a supervisor. The other two nurses glanced up, jumped out of their slouches with wide eyed stares, and grabbed the nearest workplace object in a fanatical death grip. Good, they recognized him.

"Hello, ladies," Liam purred as he walked up to the counter. "I'm-,"

"Liam Valenis," the closest sighed. He pulled out a smile as smooth as his skinny four in hand silk tie and held out his hand.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said. The nurse slowly took the offer, whimpering as he kissed it with only the slightest of touches. He then gave a respective nod to each flanking nurse. "Dianna, Elizabeth, lovely to meet you." The nurses stroked their name badges. Liam then turned his charm to the set of scrubs standing next to him. "And Ms. Jenny, you're just the person I was looking for." She hugged her clipboard so tightly that it pushed a blush up into her cheeks. "You probably don't remember me," Liam humbly began. "But I was here just the other day and you were such a wonderful help."

One of Jenny's coworkers narrowed a glare at her harder than a _horn attack._ She then turned to Liam before he indulged her coworker's fantasies further. "You're not ill again, are you?" she interrupted. The question brought all three to professional attention. They glanced him over with hands in their pockets, ready to diagnose and treat his pending ailment faster than their white coated counterparts. "Is it paralysis?"

"Poisoning?"

"Infatuation?"

"Do you need another CureAll?"

The bad part of being famous: nothing personal is private. But at least, the ace didn't have to waste time explaining his health problems. One needn't be a diehard fan to know that Liam Valenis was highly susceptible to pokemon induced status conditions. Ambulances were always on standby at tournaments. There was a reason he wore a set of medical identification tags underneath his shirt. Several close calls and death threats resulted from his susceptibility, but right now, it was his way in to see John. Liam chuckled and defensively held up his hands.

"Thank you, but I'm doing just fine and feeling rather well," he lowered his hands by brushing them down his jacket, pulling their eyes down with them to indicate just how well-endowed he was. "My friend, however," he continued, "isn't doing so well."

All three nurses harden their brows with immediate personal concern. The one closest to the computer sat down with a click into the system. The second glanced up and down the hall for anyone who might identify as his friend and Jenny had a pen in her hand, ready to defile her clipboard with any notes pertinent to his needs. Liam leaned against the counter with a solemn shake of his head. "He was afflicted with a serious case of confusion after getting hit by a _Ray_ while fighting a team battle with me." Not completely a lie. "Poor kid took the brunt of it knowing how sick I'd get if I was caught in between." The sympathetic sigh was unanimous. "I'm here to collect his things and pick up his pokemon. I'll be taking care of them until he's well again. He needs his whole team rooting for him on this one."

"Of course!" Jenny quickly answered before any of the others cut themselves in. "Just follow me and I'll get them for you." She abandoned her clipboard on the desk, no doubt as an excuse to return to her fellow hens once the errand was complete. Liam let her go first with a delicate gesture. When she passed, he made sure to acknowledge the remaining two nurses' (and their loose lips) with a wink. A smile would have done the trick but the extra effort would have them clucking so hard for the rest of the day that they would preserve his alibi better than their medical oath.

Jenny and Liam made their way through the hospital to the appropriate storage room. Jenny explained her work around the mysterious midnight brawler, sparing no detail in the hopes that every connection she made with the patient connected her closer to Liam Valenis. She spoke honestly but her natural instincts as a nurse softened the edges. John apparently spooked the staff when he woke up, and his short but intense reputation, led them to act with all haste and precaution. Brawler was not allowed visitors at this time.

Jenny was firm on this despite her personal opinions and Liam didn't push the subject. After all, he already knew where John was. Plus, judging from what he knew and experienced regarding the trainer, the staff's suspicions and concerns were warranted. Although, not needed. The Boulder Pokemon Festival reassured Liam of any hesitations. When one was reduced to the basic heart of himself, and the only thing in that heart was balloons and feathers, fear was unnecessary.

Jenny closed the door to the storage room a few minutes later. Despite coming in just the other day, John's belongings were already in an archive bag. The ink smudged lightly under her fingers.

"Here, this is all that came with him," she explained. Liam took the clear plastic bag. He pulled out a tattered backpack with mud stains and a button showcasing a cartoon tentacruel on it. Yup, this was John's. He rubbed off some of the dried dirt.

"I really hope your friend finds his bearings," Jenny added. "To be honest, _confusion_ doesn't heal well when its effects last longer than a few hours, but with a friend like you, I'm sure he'll be alright."

"Thank you, but I'm sure I won't have anything to do with his recovery," Liam replied as he leaned closer. Jenny stiffened in another blush. No clipboard to protect her this time. "Don't tell anyone but, he's a bit of a fighter. It'll take more than this to bring him down." Liam lingered a second or two longer to seal in the next train of upcoming gossip before he pulled away. She fell back into the wall with another sigh. "Thanks again, Jenny," Liam finished as he slung the pack over his shoulder. "You're a life saver."

Liam turned away and caught a glimpse into the nearest patient room. Flowers, cards, and get well gifts filled the counters. A bundle of balloons bumped against the curtain. Liam smiled. He should have brought some.

And with one flap of his silent white wings, Liam Valenis was gone.


	15. A Man Out of Time: 4

**A Man Out of Time: 4**

Liam disappeared around the corner with nothing but the aroma of elegance in his wake. Level 7 room 12. That's where he'd find John and that's where he'd hang up his halo for good. Getting there was easy. A smile of respect to each passing eye softly turned their curiosity away. One nod of recognition to an orderly and they went about their business. Those who passed beside his grace found themselves at the best end of a smile this side of the linoleum. Curtesy, confidence, and charm, a gentleman's three pillars, and the most passive aggressive way of going about your business unquestioned.

Liam ducked into the stairwell, and by the time the door closed, it was as if he never walked the halls at all. He didn't have much time now. This little game of hide and seek would put any bodyguard in full drive. Benny was probably down the nearest high rise in full sprint for the hospital, red in the face and not just for the effort. If he was making good time, he'd already be on ground level. Then again, Benny was the best seeker in the world. That's why the Valenis family hired him. He was probably already in the hospital.

Liam jumped into a trot up several flight of stairs, breathing heavier than usual against the guilt shackled to his ankles. The sooner he got over this guardian angel fetish, the better, and the less people involved, even more so. Disrespecting the Royal Jewels was just as dangerous as stealing from them and he had indulged in both. Not to mention, he completely forgot about them in this noble and guilt ridden quest. Liam quickly jerked to a stop on the nearest platform. He pulled out his cell phone and tapped it to life.

"Missed Call" lit up the screen. "X"s replaced numbers and "Unknown" filled the title. The background icon remained black, but there was undoubtedly a person behind the curtain: a person who did not leave messages, texts, and did not try again. Liam stared into the screen. He didn't need a name to go with it or a line of words to understand who it came from. The message was clear, just like the scar of the grunt who threatened him in Boulder: This was only the beginning.

Liam cursed and tucked the phone back into his pocket. To run into a pair of grunts at a festival was one thing. To run into a polisher like Vermillion at a family dinner was another. How could he have been so naïve? Letting his fighter, "Hell Raiser", win fight after fight, knowing full well who was watching. But then again, that's why they did it in the first place. And that's why they left. Hell Raiser and his sponsor didn't show up at their arranged fight last night and a no show meant no money for several cats much fatter, just as wealthy, and even more powerful than him. That single missed phone call might have saved Liam's life if he had picked it up, begged for forgiveness, or thoroughly insisted a miscommunication, but if one thing didn't kill him, another would. At least, this way, he had a choice in the matter. Liam spun his halo back into place and swung John's bag around to the front of his chest.

With John's personal affects out of holding, it was one less thing the hospital, or the police, had to investigate. He was doing John a favor. The fake pokemon license and subsequent pokebelt equipped with illegal party pokemon would be enough for detainment. Removing it from the equation gave John a fighting chance. He deserved at least that considering it wasn't his choice to come here. Return the badge, return the gear, and Liam's conscious would be clear. Dropping a bag into a room sounded easy enough. Liam reached into his pocket, by-passed the redial on his phone, and pulled out the Cork City gym badge. One zip and it would all be over. He opened the nearest pocket, stopping halfway through the arch. With guilt out of the way, curiosity took hold.

What did the nurse say: John claimed to be from the future?

Liam exchanged the small zipper for a larger one. He found John's wallet and removed the pokemon license within. He examined it again. Maybe a comparison would help judge its credibility? Juggling the items, Liam pulled out his own wallet. He removed his pokemon license and held it side by side to John's. If he had never dabbled in the art of counterfeiting, he would have guessed his own license the fake. Compared to John's iridescent logo, security strip, and what looked to be like some sort of military grade security chip, his looked basic, plain . . . out of date.

An echo bounced down the stairwell. Caught snooping red handed, Liam quickly tucked the licenses and their wallets away. Something hard brushed against Liam's hand inside the backpack. Unable to see it, the ace ran his fingers around it. Whatever it was, a layer of fabric disguised it. Liam quickly retreated from the pocket and unzipped the one behind it. A little rummaging and more zips later, he found a plastic rectangular box the size of a text book at the very back. The foundation of the backpack had been built around it. It resembled a pokegear hard drive, in concept, not creation.

New publications criticized trainer gear. Scoliosis and bulging discs were just some of the repercussions of lugging around such heavy and bulky equipment all the time. Liam didn't carry gear simply because it was too burdensome. But this gear was slim and lightweight, unusual. It looked like something published in a beta testing study. Funny, because even with the best money could buy, Liam never saw anything like this in conventions or expos. And the more odd little details he discovered, the less he understood. The pokebelt with all its pokeballs loosely resting at the bottom of the bag, however, made perfect sense.

While waiting for medevac in Boulder, Joh kept unhooking his pokeballs, asking where his pokemon were. In an attempt to prevent any more disasters that night, Liam took each one as the trainer unfastened it and placed it safely back in his bag. Poor guy was desperate about it too. Liam glanced over the pokeballs. Choice of pokeball spoke as loudly as the choice of pokemon inside. Liam already knew the identity of one. But what of the others? Maybe if he saw John's full party, he could finally figure out who this mystery trainer was. Was he a hero? A villain? What if John owned a pokemon from a different region, maybe even continent?

The bag suddenly grew heavy with the gold stashed within. Liam peered even further inside, drawing the bag closer to his face. He didn't think of taking stock of John's party before. Just trying to keep the trainer conscious was hard enough. But now in the quiet of the stairwell, a quick peek wouldn't hurt. It would only help him with their backstory. Besides, they were friends, weren't they? John said so himself. Liam opened the bag. Four balls lay at the bottom: One nest, two classic, and one friend. Was John cheap? Was he poor and couldn't afford anything else? Maybe he was so good at catching pokemon that he didn't need a handicap. Was John insecure and afraid that his pokemon wouldn't like him as a friend or did he have bad relations with his party?

The questions swirled so tightly into those releases that Liam had to pick one up and loosen the pressure. He lifted the friend ball out of the bag. The shell flashed at him like the gleam of a long lost temple treasure. It was clean, smooth, and new except for a long gash along the side where it scratched against something harder than itself. It was a miracle the ball withstood the damage. Liam rubbed his finger along the scratch. The motion made his finger burn, most likely from the microscopic sharp points of the ceramic like interior . . . or maybe not.

A door on the lower floor suddenly slammed shut. The _bang_ set Liam into another flinch. He jumped backwards, straight into the door behind him as it swung open with the entrance of another person. He jumped even harder, this time forward, into the safety rail. The friend ball popped out of his hand faster than a candy dispenser. Liam gasped into silence as the ball dropped down the center of the stairwell, growing smaller with the silence of inevitability until it smashed into the bottom level with a flash. Energy whipped out in fierce insult, spreading outward and popping the light. Shadow darkened the bottom floor. Whatever was released couldn't be seen. There was only silence, a silence that kept Liam hanging over the bar without blinking . . . or breathing.

The citizen who opened the door stood beside him and looked over the rail with him. "Bummer," was all he said. No kidding. Liam threw himself down and around the stairwell in a dizzying descent. He recited curses with every step, creating new ones when he exhausted the others. The foul dictionary ended at the bottom of the stairwell. Liam jerked to a stop in front of a caution sign: cheeks flushed and hair still in motion. Darkness led the rest of the way. Liam quickly jumped over the yellow safety chain into the basement floor.

Pieces of pokeball crunched underneath his shoes. He winced, and not just from the sound. When a pokeball shattered, so did a pokemon's obligation to its trainer. Once a pokemon realized it was no longer forcefully bound or under threat of withdrawal, the only way to stop it from doing what it wanted was to capture it again. Most released pokemon became feral after subjugation, unafraid of people and powerful from their previous training, with no rules but their own to guide them. They were even more dangerous than wild pokemon encounters.

So how in the world was he supposed to explain this? "Hey, John, you probably don't remember me because you were suffering the worst hangover/high in existence, but I got you mugged by some grunts, delayed your medical care long enough to cause permeant brain damage, and threw your pokemon down the stairwell, smashing the ball to pieces and setting it free to the world despite however long it took you to catch it." Liam glanced around the darkened hovel. He couldn't see much, only what the light coming from the stairs behind him could reach. A few breaker boxes lined the wall. Cardboard boxes filled a corner. Cobwebs and an eerie tingle of being watched drifted from the air vents. Liam always wanted to try his hand at being an actor, just not in a horror movie. He whistled several times. "Here, boy. Here, girl," he chirped.

The ace slowly put a hand to his belt and pulled off an empty classic ball. Something moved along the far wall. He glanced between the shadows. Nothing. And that was worse than a something. His free hand drifted towards his cellphone. Any kind of flashlight would help right now. "It's alright. I'm not here to hurt you, just to get you home," Liam continued to woo. "I know a materialization like that isn't comfortable, but I promise it'll be OK." Shadows he didn't know were moving suddenly stopped. A faint outline of a solid form appeared. Good, the released pokemon was listening. Now, all he had to do was gain it's trust with a few familiar scents from John's bag, catch it off guard, and recapture it. It shouldn't be that hard. So far, he knew John had a rather beautiful but not so intimidating pidgeotto. He may have also mentioned a zigzagoon named Chuckie or something or other. As a trainer, he wasn't exactly packing.

Liam clicked on the flashlight to his phone. Two greenish reflective eyes flashed to life. Liam caught his breath. A houndoom stood in front of him. Both dead flat silver eyes staring into his own. It lowered its great horned head. Shit. Liam enlarged the classic ball. What he wouldn't give for an ultra. Damn him and his ache for a challenge. The sound of enlargement pulled the dark pokemon's lips up in a snarl. Liam swallowed his heart back down his throat. It beat against the metal in his hand. One wrong move and it was done, you lose, GAME OVER.

God, he loved the feeling.

Liam pulled every ounce of adrenaline in his veins and threw the classic ball better than a desperate Elite. The houndoom leapt forward into a head on collision with the device. Plastic and metal shattered against the boney crest between his horns. Pieces flew down the length of the canine's coat. His horns struck the dead center of Liam's chest, knocking him flat on his back. Something cracked. The ace held John's backpack at his chest, grateful the _crack_ he heard was from the broken pokegear inside rather than his ribs. He shot upwards into a sitting position and jerked to a sudden stop when a growl rippled across the back of his neck. The houndoom's breath rustled his hair. His skin prickled despite the heat of the canine's breath, but then again, death often chilled down to the soul. Liam couldn't see the canine, and frankly, he didn't want to. The only thing he wanted to know was why he wasn't dead yet.

A cold nose bumped into the nap of his neck. The ace shivered as it ran up into the back of his head. So this was what the _lick_ of a ghost felt like. But the nose didn't stop there. It dropped down again, running over his shoulder and back into his hair. The stylized crown ruffled with a huff that Liam wasn't sure was satisfied or unimpressed. Whatever it was, the threat of death slowly melted away as the canine pulled away and came up beside him. Liam couldn't find the line between pokemon and darkness. Every ounce of survival instinct told him a pokemon stood beside him but its presence was so light that he was tempted to label it a figment of his imagination. This was a pokemon utterly true to its nature, or at least, one side of it.

Houndoom lowered his head again, this time into Liam's lap. He sniffed the gear clenched between his two white knuckled fists. His nose then lifted to the air. After a few heavy drafts, his attention moved to the stairwell. Liam ducked as the canine suddenly jumped over him. Houndoom leapt straight from floor to stair by rebounding off of the corner. A flicker of shadow across the light and he was gone. Beautiful. And completely against hospital protocol. Liam scrambled to his feet and threw John's backpack over his shoulders. He ran up the stairwell and after the canine. Trainer rule number 1: never underestimate a pokemon. How in the world could he forget? No, he didn't forget. His body was scarred by countless lessons taught by pokemon. John was a mysterious duality. Why wouldn't his pokemon be too? He let his guard down. Ever since Boulder, it was one slip up after another. And now, a hell hound ran rampant in the hospital with God knows what in mind because of him.

And somehow, he couldn't stop smiling.

Liam's phone bounced in his pocket against the ferocity of his sprint. He had already jumped over the edge. The only thing he could do now was control the fall as best he could. Liam made record time as he returned to the floor his curiosity got the better of him. Too bad it was still too slow. Cries of terror shuddered the stairwell door in its frame. Liam yanked it open. People plastered themselves against the wall as a surge of personnel ran into the middle of the hallway from another corridor. A jingle chased them. It was light, like the last chime of a very small bell.

Houndoom walked into the main hallway behind the crowd. His black body marked a heavy stain against the fluorescent light and white linoleum. The silhouette was thin, much thinner than any tame houndoom Liam had ever seen. It made the outline of his boney armor that much more prominent, and terrifying. Houndoom continued down the far end of the hallway. Luckily, the doors on the other end were closed. Nowhere else for him to go but back the way he came. Good, confining the canine to one half of a corridor made catching him easier.

Liam thumbed his pokebelt. Which pokemon did he choose? None apparently as Houndoom rammed into the push bar and flung the door open. He passed through before the door rebounded off of the wall, swung back into place, and closed. The bar jiggled out of place with the sudden stop, bent and scratched worse than a guard rail. A flicker across the stairwell window was all that was left of the canine's ascent. Liam whirled around and into the stairwell once more. He sprinted up two flights of stairs and yanked open the door to the next level.

Houndoom trotted down the corridor towards him from the opposite door. At first, most of the people in the ward never heard or saw him. His path undulated slightly between scents. One or two people jumped in surprise but it was only after the first shriek halfway down did the people take heed of the dark pokemon's presence. They quickly skirted out of his way, pointing, screaming, and rubbing their eyes. To see the reincarnation of death in a place where it often visited broke the mold when it came to panic.

The circulation nurse leaned over her desk, more attuned to the screams of the people than a pokemon. She traced their terror to the stairwell but only caught the tail end of their fears before Liam quickly shut the door again. He looked down at the dark pokemon, somewhat surprised it once again appeared beside him as if with magic. Houndoom glanced upwards at him in a way that showed the whites of his eyes. Liam slowly removed his hand from his pokebelt and Houndoom looked away. Threat nullified. The canine then sniffed John's pack again from its place on Liam's back and ascended the stairs once more. His gait more suited for a marathon than a sprint. Liam caught up quickly in the slack. He made it to the next level just in time to witness the phantom's true method of moving through walls.

Houndoom stood in front of the door. He jumped onto the handle. Using one paw to pull it down and his weight to bounce the door in the frame, he jumped off. The door came free. A well-rehearsed wiggle of the nose opened it further and on knock of his horns cleared the opening for the rest of his body. Less than ten seconds later, he was in the next ward. Liam grabbed the door before it closed. Houndoom didn't wait for him. The dark pokemon silently sniffed his way down the hallway again, wasting no time on curiosity. He wasn't on a rampage or looking for a way out. He was on the hunt for his trainer. The canine had not only traced the smell back to the storage room but started a methodical and deliberate floor by floor search when the trail went cold, digesting an entire aroma of disease and disinfectant in a single pass.

This was no B rate pokemon.

"Who the hell are you, John?" Liam asked himself before he tightened the straps to the backpack and raced up the stairs. If Houndoom was as smart as Liam thought him to be, the canine would follow the scent trail of the backpack. After all, it was the only connection he had to John. Better to have the devil on your heels than in your head, or running amuck in a hospital. He would lead Houndoom exactly where we wanted to be. Where they both needed to be. Level 7. Room 12. Utilizing full force of his youth and training, Liam managed to arrive at the same time as Houndoom. They stood in front of a door much different than the others. Warnings signs, procedure charts, and safety diagrams plastered its face. Apparently, entering this ward could be hazardous to one's health. What about the health of the ones already inside? Liam's stomach churned as he grabbed the handle. Did John's _confusion_ truly end in insanity?

Stories of _confusion_ cases gone wrong tickled the ace's ear. They rattled his bones like skeletons in a closet, ones that didn't make it to the morgue. _Confusion_ fucked people up. Doctor's almost always recommend assisted living for its victims. Hospice care more like it. Bibs, safety gates, and plastic spoons became a care giver's mandatory tools. Sometimes even a warden's. A single word triggered murder on more than on account. Would John even remember him? What if the trainer blamed him for stealing his gear? Somehow the thought was more disconcerting than the missed phone call in the ace's pocket.

Liam took a short breath, pulled the handle, and went inside. Basic furniture lined the corridor. No art, class, or culture hung on the walls, probably to minimize incidents with patients who had a habit of getting into things . . . or breaking them. Liam focused on passing room numbers instead of passing patients who gnawed on inanimate objects. Fitting in here was hard, even for a master sleuth like him. Even harder still when the physical exertion of the past ten minutes already had him sweating through his suit. Plus, the nurses here were trained to keep an eye on everything and everyone in their care. Nothing escaped their suspicion.

"Excuse me, do you need some help?"

Liam stopped in front of the circulation desk and looked over at the nurse already eying him up at approach. No sense denying her inquiry. She already caught an air of uncertainty about him. Benny would catch up to him in no time at this point. He didn't have time for pleasantries this time around. "Thank you, but I'm alright. I've been here before and know the rules," Liam lied. "I'm just visiting a friend."

The nurse caught his smile with her own. She was young and easily swayed with the three Cs. Unfortunately, she wasn't alone. A much older and heavier nurse slapped a pen on the counter top. She came up to the desk with a frown that extended from trainee to trespasser. The only three Cs she knew were cake, calluses, and contempt. "All guests must be approved before visitation," the charge nurse announced. And judging from her hunched shoulders, slanted eyes, and laminated state of disapproval, she was the one to authorize visits and didn't do it often. "Show me some ID," she barked.

Liam tightened his smile. Charm was ineffective against this type. In that case, he'd pull rank. "I'm sorry but I don't think you know who I am," he began but quickly ended as another slap put the nurse's meaty hand on the counter. "That's what the ID's for. Hand it over."

"If you could just give your director my name, I'm sure-,"

"-that would be against protocol." The nurse crossed her arms over her chest. "No ID, No entry."

"My name's Liam Valenis and-"

"-I don't care. You're not visiting anyone unless I say so. If you have a problem with that, you can take it to security."

Liam clenched his teeth in a snarl but he didn't need a set of fangs. He already had some. A black dot caught the corner of his eye as Houndoom walked up to one of the windows. His tail whipped sharply when his nose hit a scent. John was close. Liam quickly turned his attention back to the desk. "You know what? You're right," he smiled. "Rules are rules. Let me just run to my car. I think I left it in the front seat." Houndoom quickly trotted past Liam below the counter and out of sight of the nurses. The ace rapped his fingers across the counter. "I'll be right back." He quickly fell into stride alongside the canine. Together, they hurried down the hallway before the charge nurse stepped out from behind the desk.

"Hey! No unauthorized pokemon allowed in the hospital!" she shouted, snatching the landline and punching in a dial shortcut. Liam bent closer to the houndoom's head, risking life and limb with the proximity. "Better make it quick," he whispered. "Neither of us have much time left." Houndoom led the way with his nose, almost falling over himself when he came across one particular patch of linoleum. Liam quickly opened the door of the room in front of it. Stripped bed, flat ironed sheets, empty counters, and a floor wiped clean, it was vacant. Not a trace of a person was left. Bleach nauseated anyone who came inside. They didn't just deep clean. They were covering something up. Houndoom fiercely sneezed at the chemical irritant. A second followed, this time with soot to coat his nasal interior.

The scent trail was gone but the canine now knew his trainer was somewhere close by. He bayed, throwing up his head and voice in the strangest sound the species ever made. The canine repeated his call, completely oblivious to the attention he was drawing. Liam, however, was perfectly aware of the two nurses striding down the hallway in full force. One enlarged a pokeball. Patients started yelling. Other attending personnel diverted to subdue them but the charge nurse didn't stop.

Houndoom suddenly quieted. Ears pricked, tail still, head cocked, he didn't move and yet every part of him was searching, reaching out to John in a way researchers would give their degrees to understand. The fire canine then took off faster than a rocket launch. Liam slipped trying the same take off. "Restricted Access" plastered the double security doors quickly approaching at the far end of the hall. Houndoom lowered his head. At that speed, he didn't intend to just bend the push bar. One unauthorized push, no matter how powerful, would trigger the alarm, ruining any hope Liam had of a stealthy escape.

"Wait!" Liam called. He reached out and had the unfortunate luck of actually grabbing something. Houndoom's spaded tail was sharper than it looked. The ace quickly released it before the edges dug too far into his palm. Houndoom whipped it back into place. He turned around with a stare cold enough to freeze his internal heat. Liam swallowed his iceberg sized mistake. The dark pokemon's head quickly lifted, however, as a chansey appeared, breathing heavily from the chase, and looked at Houndoom. He looked at her, and when the egg pokemon caught her breath, Liam swore it would be her last one. If reinforced double paned security doors weren't going to stop the dark pokemon, then neither would a pudgy out of shape attendant. But to his surprise, she pulled an ID badge out of her pouch pocket. The delicate nature to which she looked at it made the laminated card precious. It wasn't just a job or a career, it was her calling. Chansey looked at the keypad. Then, Houndoom.

Liam realized he was invisible. It was a curious state for a celebrity ace trainer to be in. He could have had all the gym badges in the world and he still wouldn't have been able to control the two pokemon in front of him. The third pokemon that joined the group, however, had very specific orders. A jigglypuff waddled next to Chansey. Judging by the furrow in her brow, deep seated frown, and stout hands on her hips, she belonged to the charge nurse. Jigglypuff lifted on her toes in reprimand and bumped the egg pokemon. Chansey squeezed her badge and held it over her eyes in recognition of her conduct. Jigglypuff then turned to Liam with an inflation of her cheeks. He innocently shrugged his shoulders, but when her _leer_ hit the houndoom, he bent his head in a snarl that popped the balloon pokemon's pride.

Jigglypuff waddled in retreat to the back of the group, but when the canine didn't follow, she went on the offensive. Two notes of a _sing_ escaped her throat before a bangled back paw kicked them back down again. The balloon pokemon bounced down the hallway. With the gumball out of the way, Houndoom looked to Chansey again. She flinched but her courage turned out to be as strong as her passion for her field. She lowered the badge, turned to the electronic lock, and ran the card through the reader. It buzzed. Something clicked. Liam didn't have time to ponder her motives. He threw himself into the door before the dark pokemon crashed through it. The metal barely cleared before Houndoom trotted into the restricted ward without a shred of gratitude. He would have made it in one way or another. This was just cleaner.

Liam remembered his manners and quickly ushered Chansey through the door. He caught a glimpse of the small black script embroidered into her hat. "Come on, Harriet," he whispered. "We might need your help in more ways than that tonight." If they managed to make it through the night at all. An orderly slid into view just outside the door with a smeargle on his shoulder. He threw out his hand. "Don't you move," he yelled. "Don't take another step!"

Liam defensively held up his hands. His surprise melted into a smile as the door closed without his support, locked, and stayed that way when Chansey punched the emergency override. Another _click_ sealed the deal. The doors wouldn't open until someone with higher level clearance permitted access. It would buy them time, but not much, as a doctor in a set of thick round glasses rushed into the hallway. Liam lost sight of him as the nurse with the smeargle ran into the doors. They yanked to no avail, their faces filling the small window with steamy huffs of frustration. Liam was tempted to pull down an eye and stick out a tongue but the dark pokemon quickly reminded them that this was no time for taunting.

Houndoom ran his nose across the bottom of many closed doors set into the wall. One caught his attention. He jiggled the handle. It rattled firmly in resistance. The fire canine then stood up on his back legs and looked into the open sliding tray of a window. He whined at what he saw, dropped down, and pawed at the intersection of frame and door. Rapid scratching gauged out his intentions.

"Stop that!" Liam demanded before metal chips splintered off and cut him across the face as much as the canine's paws. Heavy rattles signaled a new level of urgency. Liam ran over. Stopping the canine with his bare hands left a three inch gash in his palm the last time, so he too tried the handle. Locked. He peeked in the window and caught a glimpse of someone sitting on the floor. Padded walls or not, even a deaf and blind man could have felt the vibrations of the canine's pounding. If that was John, he was either unconscious, brain dead, or dead entirely. Liam expected the latter for himself should the houndoom blame him for his trainer's plight.

"That's not going to work," Liam hurriedly advised. Houndoom stopped scratching. The swiftness of it was almost as if the canine understood . . . or had something else in mind. He looked at Harriet. She tucked the keycard back into her pocket with a shake of her head. What now? Houndoom came up with an answer. He trotted across the hall, turned around to face John's room, and backed up to the wall. His head dropped.

"Wait, let's think about this," Liam pleaded. Houndoom was tired of listening. He pushed off of the wall and charged the door. Liam's heart stopped but it wasn't from the collision, but rather, the silence. Houndoom disappeared just before he struck the door. His entire being vanished in a sharp slanted disjunction of his body. In an instant, he was gone. Liam staggered backwards into the wall. The attack Houndoom used wasn't new. The mechanics were widely known. _Feint attacks_ : bursts of speed so quick, they were untraceable to the human eye. They were a transportation of matter that came the closest to _teleportation_. Liam witnessed such speed many times before but never through an enclosed space. There was always an opening, always a path for matter to travel. Moving through solid objects without destroying them was impossible . . . unless the pokemon moved fast enough to resonate through them entirely.

Liam laughed. A loud buzzer down the hallway cut him off. Both security doors swung open. A man in a white lab coat stood in the center. By the way his coattails flared and cheeks burned, he looked more like a mad scientist than a doctor. Two brutes clad in white flanked him: One, a failed artist with a smeargle. The other, a poor entomologist with a weedle under his arm. Neither were happy to see him. It was a refreshing change of pace. Liam held his ground. It wasn't in his nature to run, or introduce himself with a fist. A little trespassing. Some minor property damage. They could still make this right.

Something slammed into John's door from the inside with a _bang_ , causing all four men to flinch _._ The door bulged outward in labor pain until another swift _bang_ punched it out of the frame altogether. Liam blinked as the wake of the flying door brushed past him. It crashed to a stop against the opposing wall. Houndoom stepped into the now empty frame. With a shake of his great horns, he turned around, disappeared, and appeared again tail first, dragging John out of the room by the collar of a strait jacket.

"What the hell is going on here!?" the doctor yelled.

"Hold on a second," Liam intervened as he stepped away from the wall. "I can explain . . . sort of."

Lopo carefully set John on the floor and glanced up at the doctor. That white lab coat stiffened so hard that even Liam could tell something had happened between him and the patient in question. Something Houndoom didn't like. A growl rumbled from deep within his throat. The doctor backpedaled out of the frontline. "Security, someone call security!" he yelled. So the bullies in white were supposed to be nurses . . .

"If everyone would just calm down, I can explain everything," Liam insisted as he stepped up beside the unconscious John. A curled lip and flash of fang kept him from getting any closer. The ace raised his hands to all parties involved in an attempt to hold back the hostility pressing in against them. They strained as two security guards rushed into the restricted area with hands on their batons.

"Thank, God," the doctor cried. "Contain this madness!"

"This is all just a mistake," Liam tried again. Lopo placed himself over John. His tail hung to a standstill with a growl that was no longer a warning but a promise. One of the nurses and a guard slid along the wall and boxed them in. Liam glanced away and the doctor dashed to the wall. He slammed his palm into a bright red button. Sharp bursts of light flashed in the hallway. An siren blared with the urgency of a fire alarm. No one could hear Liam's pleas now. With the angel unable to work a miracle, the devil took hold.

Houndoom stopped growling. A single spark flickered from his mouth. It was small, short lived, and the start of an inferno about to consume this entire wing. "Aw, screw it," Liam muttered before he yanked off a pokeball from his belt and punched the release before the flames of hell burned them all to smithereens. A whitish blue materialization filled the hallway. It was the largest of the gathering, and probably the largest of its species. Nearly 15 hands high and weighing about 1 ton, a swampert materialized in the center of the hallway with a rippling call deep enough to rival wailmer in the ocean. He shook off the materialization better than the mud of the swamp and looked below him at John and Houndoom. Both were trapped underneath him. The canine remained crouched over his trainer but he kept his jaws closed. There wasn't enough space to open them. Swampert chirped another ripple.

"Now, everybody take a deep breath and calm down," Liam commanded. "Nobody is going anywhere or doing anything unless Hamilton says so."

Hamilton, the swampert, lifted his head with another readjustment of his feet, this time with a much firmer stomp of approval. Lopo swatted his spade against the pokemon's belly as it pressed against him. Hamilton grunted with an unamused tickle. Liam heartily slapped his pokemon on the leg. The motion might as well have struck the doctor across the face. His white coat flew upwards as he fell onto the floor. His glasses dropped down his nose with a tilt of the frame. The next hour dropped even quicker.

Doctor Hannagan struggled to keep up with the hospital's director, Mr. Bernstein as they climbed a dark narrow set of stairs towards the roof. The good doctor shoved his glasses into place with a short finger. "Transfer? What do you mean a transfer?" he shouted.

"You said it yourself, Doctor," the Director replied without bothering to stop or even moisten his tone to polite standards. "He's a danger to himself and others. What better reason to remove him from this hospital?"

"But he's mentally unstable! His condition: critical!"

"All the more reason to send him to some of the best mental health experts in the region."

"But those uncivilized barbarians don't even know what penicillin is."

Bernstein whirled around so fast that Hannagan grabbed the safety rail to keep from falling down the stairs. "Shove it, Hannagan," he hissed. "I put up with your _research_ because you made a lot of this hospital's ugly and unwanted disappear, but you went too far this time with the wrong head case. You'll be lucky to be cleaning bed pans when this is all over!"

Hannagan's glasses slipped again. He covered them as the door to the rooftop opened and a surge of bright light illuminated the stairwell. Heavily _thumping_ helicopter blades pounded out any further conversation. Air currents whipped across the platform, the black helicopter that created them waiting for take-off. Doctor Hannagan paused at the top of the stairwell. Director Bernstein left him behind without a second glance. He hurried towards the chopper in a hunch. Two EMTs buckled the final straps of John's stretcher into the cabin. Liam thanked them with a pat on the shoulder. Few could strap a patient in for transport with a houndoom hanging over their heads. The fire canine refused to remove his front half from John's chest.

Liam then glanced over his shoulder, spotted the director's approach, and ran over to meet him halfway. They exchanged words, nothing Dr. Hannagan could make out above the pounding, and nothing good judging from the wink the multibillionaire gave him before running back to the chopper. Doctor Hannagan dropped his hand. His jacket billowed as wildly as his bad haircut. No sense trying to stop the ID badge slapping against his sleeve or the helicopter from leaving. Both he and this hospital were finished.


	16. A Man Out of Time: 5

**A Man Out of Time: 5**

The darkness surrounded him again. It was quickly becoming a second home. John floated in it for a while. There was no telling how long in a place like this. There was no sight, sound, or even the inkling of a feeling. Such nothingness birthed peace naturally. Darkness calmed the soul when the mind no longer feared it. _This_ was what meditation wished it could achieve. John hesitated to recede from its depths. He never came this far or this deep on his own, but then again, enlightenment only graced those who _could_ travel to it on their own. The darkness faded quickly once consciousness returned. Its speed was no surprise considering these shadows were artificial.

John opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was wood. Stacked into rafters, they crisscrossed above him. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling. A woven mat cushioned his recovery. After sleeping on one for two years, he memorized the feeling. In matching style, a small pillow propped up his head and a light blanket kept his body warm. Water gurgled nearby. The scent of cedar and sand filled the room. Funny, it smelled just like-John shot up faster than a Jynx-In-The-Box. He grabbed the blanket as it fell from his chest.

It smelled just like Cork City Gym.

John glanced around the room. No furniture decorated it except for a stand with a lantern on it and a small cupboard of open faced shelves. In them were a few books, a box of matches, and a short glass for drinking. The mat he lay on wasn't long enough to hold his ankles but it matched the wooden floor and paper lattice walls. The cabin cubicle was small, plain, and exactly like the one he had at the dojo. John looked down at the blanket, his hand, and then the wrist wrapped in white bandages. They ran up his forearm, broke at the elbow, and continued up his bicep until they reached his shoulder. He traced them, dropping his hand to his chest and abdomen which were also wrapped. The bandages hugged his skin tightly for support, not suffocation. A spicy aroma drifted from them as he moved. No doubt from the oils and herbs doused within. Copper sleeves and magnetic bracelets couldn't beat the power of these bandages. They were Cork City Dojo's secret treatment for a daily ritual of physical endurance.

No wonder he woke up without any pain.

The bandages on his torso disappeared under a pair of work out slacks. Someone had changed him into them. The matching jacket lay neatly folded beside the mat. He carefully touched the gi folded next to it. Frayed, dirtied, and worn, there was no mistaking it, it was his. But how'd they get here? John glanced around again as if expecting to find someone in the corner with an explanation. Was this some sort of dream? Was he truly even awake?

John pulled the blanket away. It revealed his legs, of which, the ankles were also wrapped. Judging from the comfortable snug feeling along his claves, the bandages extended up to his knees and probably his thighs. Head to toe, he was wrapped in the dojo's finest. John slowly set the blanket on the floor. The last time he needed a full body bandage was after last year's commencement. _These_ bruises were from a fall, a fall that knocked him into a pond and into a fight, which led to a nightmare that he wished had been just that, a bad dream. John looked at his inner left elbow. A purple bruise spotted the joint where a needle had been. No, this wasn't a dream. John carefully ran his fingers across the mark. No bandages here. The ones wrapped there previously had done their work to satisfaction. John smiled. He would never willingly set foot in Garden Cruise Memorial Hospital ever again, but if he did, he would have to thank Harriet for her hard work.

John dropped his hand and looked up to the door. Someone left it cracked open. Most likely his caregiver to keep an eye on him whenever passing by. Either them, or the houndoom lying on the veranda just outside the door. Both horns stayed high as he surveyed the dojo grounds. The canine's eyes were soft against the sunlight and scents trickling in on the breeze. His nose occasionally followed them but he never moved from the door, not even as it quietly slid open. John knelt at the door and smiled at the sleek black shadow on the other side. Both turned in unison as another person suddenly walked around the corner.

John pegged him as non-native. Clad in the undressing's of a suit, the man had an air of regality about him, but judging by the way he rolled up his sleeves, he had the heart of a working man. The man was halfway through a cuff when he spotted them. Surprise pushed up his brow. "You're awake," he said, although it sounded more like a question than a statement. John glanced at Lopo. Was he not supposed to be? "I'm sorry, you can call me Mr. Bentley," the man said. He stepped closer, cautiously glanced at the houndoom, and extended his hand. Lopo wiggled his nose at it, causing the hand to veer away. John quickly clasped it with a leery eye on his pokemon.

"John," he introduced before releasing the hand so that it could finish its work. "This may sound a bit odd, but, do you know how I got here?"

"Well, I should considering I was the pilot who brought you here," Mr. Bentley exclaimed.

"Pilot?"

"That's right: pilot, captain, driver, you name it, I move it."

John smiled. It lifted Mr. Bentley's chin. "I air lifted you from the hospital to here," he clarified.

"Like, in a helicopter?"

Mr. Bentley chuckled. "More than _like_. And from what I hear, it's your second voyage over the past two days. You sure have an interesting taste in travel."

John looked at Bentley's platinum watch and the time ticking by on it. No kidding.

John sighed with a shake of his head. He had never been in a plane, or a helicopter, or anything more than an elevator, and twice now he missed his chance at a fearow's eye view of the world. Although, flying wasn't a new concept to him. Riding on the back of houndoom, arcanine, ponyta, and other miscellaneous pokemon taught him the thrill. He rode shooting stars on the back of a mountain and chased the tails of rainbows across valleys on patrol. He wasn't very good at catching them, but compared to that, riding on a fabric cushion with an inky air fare ticket didn't sound remotely comfortable.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Mr. Bentley continued. "I'll let the others know you're awake."

Others? What others? He turned away before John could ask. A small string of hope pulled John's heart. Maybe by _others_ , Mr. Bentley meant Marcus, Joyce, his family and friends, but if this truly was the past, none of them existed yet. This world wasn't his. And yet . . .

John crawled out beside the fire canine, crossed his legs, and sat on the edge of the porch. Lopo watched, careful not to let his tail wag even once, and turned his head back to the garden. Trainer and pokemon looked out into it. John closed his eyes in a deep inhale that was almost as tranquil as the landscape around them. Peace blanketed the dojo. One that not even time could unsettle. It was an unconscious side effect from the power dwelling within these walls, like the radiation of a nuclear pokemon. Past, present, and future bled into one. Had he awoke from his _confusion_ here, routine would have befallen him easier than unconsciousness. Like nothing had ever happened. Commencement was just around the corner . . .

John opened his eyes. He touched the bruise in his elbow and glanced over his shoulder into the open room. His pokegear lay just to the side. Mud caked it now more than ever. He carefully reached over the back of the houndoom for it. Lopo didn't have to move to accommodate him. The trainer's elbow found the perfect spot between the canine's leg and belly. One reach and he snagged the gear, smelling the oil in Lopo's coat without disturbing so much as a hair.

John set the bag in his lap. He pulled open a zipper. It sounded unusually artificial in the garden and even more unusual than John remembered. Probably because the gear built into the pack was in pieces. Another reminder that his experience in Boulder was less than friendly. John bothered with it as much as his broken phone. He pulled out his pokebelt, rummaged through the bag a little more, and pulled out a classic ball. It enlarged with a _whirr_. His thumb paused on the release. He felt it before the ball even sprang open. It was empty. Red and white split as the ball opened. Nothing came out. Lularoo was missing, or rather, wasn't here at all. She didn't make the time jump because she wasn't with her trainer when he leapt head over hills into catastrophe.

John closed the ball and pressed it against his forehead. At least, he knew where the rapidash was and that she was safe. The Wicket stable was one of the best around. John knew that because he helped build it. If only the rest of his questions were so easily satisfied. A wormhole of "what ifs" suddenly sucked all other thoughts from his head. It was so strong that it spanned from his generation to the next, or more accurately, the one he currently resided.

Did Carol and Sam know he was missing? Did Lularoo think he had abandoned her? Did every second in this timeline tick by at the same rate as his or was everything at a standstill until he reached that moment in the future once more?

John slowly tapped the ball against his head. He had to capture those thoughts before they swallowed him whole. Unless he had a time machine or another mystical pokemon capable of bringing him back to where he came from, there was nothing he could do about it. Life lesson #104: Approach what is out of your control by mastering what it is you _can_ control. Take a stock of yourself before heading out into the unknown. This way, you know at least something if only it is yourself. Of which, was another life lesson entirely.

John pulled the pokeball away and fastened it onto his belt. He went through the other two, methodically taking stock of their condition before release to make sure everyone was accounted for. Marco perched on the opposing roof to sun himself while watching the gathering down below. Charles was beside himself with this new yet old environment. He dashed to and fro looking for nothing and yet everything. Lopo uncrossed his paws and wished the linoone had been the one left behind when Charles suddenly appeared below him from underneath the veranda.

John left the broken remains of the pokegear in its pouch. There were no trashcans here to dispose of them anyway. It matched his phone and was as useful as his wallet. Lopo's ball was missing but the houndoom currently lay beside him and that's all that really mattered. That, and the wooden box left at the bottom of the bag. John's heart raced when he saw it. He quickly pulled it out and set his bag aside so that only the box occupied his lap. He traced the edges. Not a crack, scratch, or nick defiled it. John sighed hard enough to relax his shoulders.

Sensei drilled into him the faults of possessions. After hiking twelve miles with a full pack of gear, John learned to rid himself of the burden. Even those considered essential. His coin card was useless without the technology to understand it. A pokemon license wouldn't stop him from befriending a pokemon. Stores always carried backpacks, gis eventually ripped, and his button collectables weren't worth anything to anybody outside of an inside joke. But this . . . John ran his fingers over the box as if it belonged to his family for generations. This was the one thing Aria set aside for him and him alone. It was something that couldn't be replaced because there was no fabricating, recreating, or rebuilding it. Wrapped in that box was a dear friend that could never be forgotten. No amount of pokemon magic, brainwashing, or medicine could forge a feeling made from a lifetime of memories. The box and feather inside were his links to the future, his past. With it, John knew he wasn't crazy or _confused_.

Marco announced the arrival of two more people in the garden with a chirp. Mr. Bentley walked around the corner with none other than that hazy sweet smelling smile John remembered at the festival. It was Angel. Both new arrivals looked up as Marco launched from his perch into a slow circle around the rock garden. Together, they smiled. Most people did. Marco was blessed with extra-long feathers draped in blue and teal instead of the usual red and yellow. Putting most pidgeot to shame, the bird pokemon never ceased a chance to show off his colors. Angel unhooked a ball from his belt and tossed it up with the youthful spring of an apple. Another pidgeotto materialized in the garden: A female judging by the size, feathers, and muted colors. She wasted no time joining Marco in his circle. And to John's surprise, the male let her. Just how the two knew each other John didn't know but, then again, that same nostalgia also prompted him off of the veranda with a wave.

"Angel!" he called and immediately regretted the act as the ace looked over in a smile that embarrassed John with every fiber of his being. Mr. Bentley raised an eyebrow. Angel made every attempt to ignore it. He made his way along the veranda. John didn't lower his head, even if it would've hidden his blush. The memory of Sensei's knuckles underneath kept his chin up no matter the humiliation. "I'm sorry," John quickly corrected. Like that could ever be anyone's real name. Angel waved away the rest.

"Don't be," he replied. "I like it." The ace touched his neck, caught Mr. Bentley watching, and quickly removed it. "Besides," he continued. "I didn't think you'd remember me at all."

To be honest, John didn't. Nowhere during that fuzzy roller coaster ride of a night did he remember more than a gut feeling, and most of that was just nausea. "Mr. Bentley said I was transferred from the hospital," John began. Liam was too sharp not to catch up and clean up the rest before anymore could be said.

"Just came in last night," the ace clarified. "I was the one who called in the paramedics, and when I heard you were having a hard time at the hospital, I had them transfer you somewhere more comfortable. The name's Liam, by the way, Liam Valenis."

Holy Shit! No wonder the person before him felt so familiar. This was Liam Valenis. _The_ Liam Valenis. And he just called the most powerful man in the future a pet name? John didn't move. Liam chuckled and tucked his hand back into his pocket. He suddenly remembered Mr. Bentley's presence and cleared his throat. "Benny, can you give us a few minutes?" he asked.

The pilot didn't seem pleased with the request but left without disagreement. Liam quickly turned back to John. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." He spoke with a guilt John didn't quite understand. "But I wanted to get you home, or at least, somewhere familiar after all you've been through." So Liam _was_ present the night of the festival. "This was the best place I could come up with."

John opened his mouth to explain but quickly shut it again before any words betrayed him. He couldn't blurt out just anything. If Liam was at the festival, and knew about the hospital, he probably already had his suspicions. John knew himself to be sane, but the ace staring him straight in the face might not. Hesitation turned into an awkward pause.

"Did I make a mistake?" Liam picked up. Strengthening inquisition pinched his gaze a little tighter. "If you're not from Cork City, then where?"

The truth came to mind but there were no records to prove it, not even people. Aria wasn't born yet, his parents were just barely adults, and the only person in Boulder he met at present had placed him under arrest. There was no going back to the little old mountain town of Boulder. Luckily, Liam wasn't entirely wrong.

"No, you were right," John quickly corrected. "This is home. I feel a thousand times better already." He unconsciously touched his ribs.

"Good," Liam replied with a cattish curl of his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, the dojo warm ups covering his figure suddenly apparent. "How long have you been training at the dojo?"

"A little over two years," John answered but quickly caught himself with a shake of his head. "But that was a different time."

"Oh? If you started just a little later, we would have had the chance to practice together," Liam informed. "I started training here about a year ago. Its touch and go being . . . me, but Sensei always welcomes me back. I guess that makes you my superior." He quickly clasped a palm in his fist and bowed. "Senpai."

Never in the existence of the universe did John ever imagine himself a superior to Liam Valenis. Not even in fantasies. He quickly copied the motion with a stutter. "P-please, we're practically the same age," John exclaimed.

"Speaking of which, there's someone I want you to meet," Liam patted John on the shoulder and led him into a walk out of the garden. "Although, I'm sure you know him already since he's practically been raised here. Plus, he's hard to miss."

John stuttered something well enough to be considered a reply but it did nothing to deter them from their path through the compound. He could hardly comprehend who it was that so casually hung around his shoulders let alone speak to him. This was Liam Valenis in his prime. The diamond stage of a life filled with golden years. And John was now in it. He remembered the first and only time he ever saw the regional star in person. That was at an Outpost fundraiser with Aria when he was too young to know where the money for the sanctuary came from.

Those bright blue eyes, platinum blonde hair, and trickster smile: God, Liam looked so young. Hell, he was young. 37 or so years younger than what John knew him to be. Maybe even a year or two younger than himself. John really _was_ his Senpai. Maybe that's why John let himself be led across the garden so easily. The ace before him was powerful, exuberant, and cool enough to fool a lie detector test, but that's all he was, an ace. Even more so, a student at the dojo, not unlike himself. A student who probably loved pokemon just as much as he did.

Marco flew down in front of them with a chirp. Athena followed in earnest to catch the ribbon of tail feathers. "My, aren't they getting along," Liam added with a glance at the sky.

"Your pidgeotto has a strong beat," John commented, the ease to which Liam lived life rubbing off on him. A trainer was a trainer no matter the age, or generation. "I bet she's got one heck of a _gust_."

"Blows away most of the competition if I do say so myself," Liam answered. "Unfortunately, that includes any kind of suitor. Looks like she's already running yours into the ground."

"Who, Marco? He's just playing hard to get. He's a bit . . . conceited. Acts more like a female than a male."

"And mine more male than female! He probably gets it from those feathers, and rightfully so. He's gorgeous, and so at ease in flight despite the drag. He takes the trellises of the compound easier than an open meadow."

"That's because he was raised here. I found him as an abandoned hatchling on the mountain within the first few months of training. Just a tiny little pidgey you could hold in the palm of your hand. The day I put a pokeball to him was when he learned to fly and came back on his own accord. Pesky bird just wouldn't leave."

"Sounds like mine. I caught Athena in the wild doing everything she could to entice me to be her mate since she blew away the other pidgeotto. Bit of a show until I finally gave in and made her mine. She intimidates better than a rival male."

"If she keeps that up, Marco might just have found someone big enough to fill that ego of his."

The two shared a chuckle and looked at the sky again. Marco spun a little higher above the compound, stretching his tail to full length. Athena flew through the center, spinning to keep him in sight. They coiled the last spiral together before pulling apart into another flirtatious dive. Liam hollered with a wave of his fist. John chuckled but caught something in the corner of his eye. He looked down into a room of the main house. Both doors were pulled back to reveal a room viewing the garden. A short tea table occupied the center. Two pillow mats adorned opposite ends but only one side had a full steaming cup of tea. It warmed the thin knobby hands of the old woman sipping it. She sat, waiting for the empty spot across her to fill.

More white than gray dyed her hair. Tireless tradition kept it in a bun on the top of her head. Even more tireless chores caused smaller strands to fray out all around it. Wrinkles streaked from a narrow gaze that cut through the steam of her tea better than a sharpened katana. Brown spots alluded to the thinness of the old woman's skin but the dark gleam in her eyes was nothing but weak. In fact, it paralyzed as it turned upon John. He stopped, recognizing that silent disapproval from several black and white photographs that once hung on the dojo wall. That nearly black gaze pinching at him belonged to none other than Whey, wife of Cork City's past gym leader and dojo master. Two years of story and speculation magically came to life before him. It was like staring into a photo reenactment. It was like staring at a ghost. Liam suddenly touched him on the shoulder.

"Let's hurry up. I think things have already started without us," he exclaimed. The ace hopped off of the veranda and started up the hill towards the training grounds. John quickly fluttered his eyes away from the three second glimpse turned eternity and followed. Another quickly replaced him. Lopo walked along the veranda behind them. He stopped in front of the open room and blatantly addressed his audience. Whey offered the same disdain. He flicked his tail and moved on. Ghosts held little power over the darkness.


	17. Hell Raiser: 1

**Hell Raiser: 1**

Charles didn't bother exorcising ghosts, insulting elders, or dojo tradition when he realized the group was leaving him behind. He bypassed the house in a mad dash across the garden and ran up the hill in a zig-zag worthy of his past evolution. Curling to a stop next to John and Liam, they crested the hill. Fist and feet pounded the training grounds flat over the years. Grass gave way to dirt in several popular areas, especially around the wooden dummies, but not a fist or finger currently disturbed them. A crowd gathered around one particular wrestling circle. John pegged them as current students from the warm ups and gis they wore in one fashion or another. Some wore no jacket, a half jacket, pants, and in one specific case, hardly anything at all. That particular stallion sported nothing but a pair of black spandex shorts and the natural born gifts God gave him.

Testosterone fueled the stallion's voice as much as his body as he rolled another student across his shoulder and into the dirt of the battlefield. Both arms swung up in a shout. Sweat flung from his bronze skin. Not a bruise defiled him, although both hands and wrists were wrapped, no doubt to keep his hands clean of any accidental blood spill. A round of cheers went up, fueling his fighting spirit. No mercy. No retreat and no chance that his opponent was going to get up without assistance.

Marco and Athena perched on each of John's shoulders. Not even they could refute the gladiator his victory. Liam crossed his arms over his chest. "Still hazing the newbies?" he called to the student. "Haven't you gotten tired of their whimpers yet, or are you just trying to collect their tears?"

The gladiator turned his chiseled jaw their way. Five O'clock shadow painted his face, although, it was dark enough to be closer to seven. He sported a short buzz cut of blackish brown hair to match. It glistened like fresh dew when he poured a water bottle over his head. Marcus Hailbringer turned out a short and square smile filled with clenched teeth. It was a greeting meant for a rival not a friend. He stomped over, helped his fighting partner to his feet, then shoved the student towards the others who jeered and admired his efforts.

Someone tossed Marcus a towel. He caught it without looking, wiped his face, and walked over to the pair. For a mythological statue, he tread without a sound, although, the ground did shake with his steps. Or maybe that was just John's nerves? Marcus stopped in front of them with a sharp jab of his chin. "Who's the bird whisperer?" he jeered.

John tensed so hard that his vocal cords became immobile. Liam didn't catch the reference until he glanced to the side. With a set of pidgeotto extending beyond John's shoulders and a linoone for a set of shoes, it did give off a naturalistic feel. Marcus hated activists.

"This is a friend. We met in Boulder," Liam began. "John, meet Marcus. Marcus, John." The trainer needed no introduction. From first glance, he recognized the gladiator. Short, tan, and packed with enough muscle to rival a Machamp, Sensei suddenly went from unbeatable to invincible. Energy radiated off of Marcus stronger than the smell of his sweat. Unlike his older self, the gladiator had not quite tamed his raw primal rage. In fact, from by the way he flexed his muscles at the mere sight of another male, he lavished in it. Just how many heads could Marcus pop off in a single triangle chokehold? His approach alone sent the weak and feeble tottering on their heels. Good thing John didn't have a heart condition as Marcus examined the mummy before him. "Looks like you got your ass handed to you," he grunted.

"Don't be so quick to judge," Liam quickly answered. "John here isn't the only one to get in over his head. I wouldn't have made it home if it wasn't for him."

Judging from the slight pull of Marcu' shoulders, he wasn't too keen on believing without seeing. John didn't blame him. No matter what generation, the Valenis name was always cordial, if not complimentary. Plus, John barely believed the words himself.

"How am I not surprised?" Marcus scoffed as he shifted his dark eyes to Liam. "Who did you piss off this time?"

"Oh, just a couple of work buddies."

John didn't remember much from that night but a friendly atmosphere wasn't one of them. Liam met Marcus' glance. Their eyes stuck just long enough to create the need for a second conversation later on, one John felt he wasn't privy to. Liam covered it up by continuing the introduction. "John was actually a student here not too long ago."

Marcus moved much more sharply at that. "What the hell'you talkin' about?" he snapped. "I've never seen this pipsqueak in my whole entire life and I've been here for twelve years."

He might as well have snapped John's neck.

"He started early," Liam shrugged.

"I know every member of this dojo, _especially_ the students. I've challenged every Senpai since I was fifteen and I sure as hell don't remember rolling with you."

Liam kept silent this time. He looked at John with a bounce of his heels in that same reaching smile he used in the garden. He probed every aspect of John's alibi. And used Marcus to do it. John couldn't let his secret out. The future was at stake. But he wasn't good at keeping secrets either. Even if he rehearsed and practiced, a lie was a lie and John didn't do well lying around at all. Sticking to the truth as much as possible was his best bet.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember me," John said. "I'm pretty easy to forget."

"If that were the case, then I'd have broken you in fast and easy, and rolled you in more bandages than you're wearing now.

"You did," John smiled to himself.

Marcus shoved John in the shoulder with a grunt. It jarred the pidgeotto, causing Athena to take off and Marco to squawk with a flap of his wings. Luckily, that pinpoint aggression avoided anything bandaged. "You think this is a joke?" Marcus threatened.

John dropped his smile faster than a dead magneton. The person that was Marcus Hailbringer strobed between present and future. Now and then, John had made the same mistake twice. "Of course not," he quickly corrected but his _future sight_ couldn't stop the inevitable. Marcus jabbed a finger at him.

"You want to be a part of this dojo so bad that you're willing to lie about it, fine. I'll show you just what it means to live a day in the life of a true martial artist." He lowered into a combative stance smoother than his shift of weight. "Fight me. Right here. Right now."

" _Whoa_ now, Marcus. No need for hostilities," Liam began but John cut him off.

"Alright," he quickly agreed. The other students quieted in awe, not from the request but the reply, as John shifted into a sideways stance and balled his hands into fists. Even Marcus felt himself straighten just a little as John neither turned his eyes nor his story away. Liam's halo sparked in a shortage. His ploy to reveal John's true background had taken an unexpected turn. For a fraud, the trainer sure could hold a bluff. It was admirable . . . and dangerous. John didn't know what he was getting into. Liam casually, but quickly, placed himself between the two. Charles, excited by the energy, dashed back and forth between them. First near John, then by Marcus. It inspired Liam into action.

"Beating a cripple, isn't really your style, Marcus," Liam exclaimed. Everyone, looked at John's bandages. A physical fight might just break him in half. But pride was just as powerful as insult.

"I never take back a challenge," Marcus replied with a tense strain of his lips. "No matter who it is-"

"-or what it's for," John finished.

The gladiator gnashed out a grin. "Besides, it doesn't look like Johnny Boy wants to back out."

"But where's the fun in that?" Liam pleaded.

"I ain't lettin' this wannabe soil this gym's name. Get outta my way Valenis."

"Who said anything about stopping you?"

John lifted in curiosity. Marcus pinched his eyes a little tighter.

"Keep the challenge," Liam continued as he pulled off a pokeball from his waist. He spun it into enlargement, popped it up lightly, and caught it in his hand. "But change the players." It was Marcus' turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You mean a pokemon battle?" John clarified.

Liam pointed a finger and the ball, at him with a wink. Marcus scoffed, blowing himself out of his stance. "Only a pussy let's someone else fight their own battles," he exclaimed.

"So that's the reason why you decided to pick up a belt?" Liam exclaimed. He tossed the pokeball and Marcus caught it with his chest, nearly fumbling it out of his grasp entirely.

"Forget your pokemon in the main house again and Sensei will really combust," Liam warned. Marcus mishandled the release and the ball suddenly opened. Energy spiraled out and hit the ground in a plume of energized flame tips. White turned yellow, then orange, and finally red before finishing with a sky blue pop. Zoro, the combusken, materialized on the training field. He looked at Marcus, somewhat infuriated that his trainer had forgotten him, yet again. Zoro then looked behind him at Liam who merely crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't even think he's sorry this time," Liam said to the pokemon. "In fact, he probably did it on purpose given the rise of a new opponent."

Zoro's brow furrowed. He turned back to Marcus and leapt into a _double kick_ that hit chest first and cheek second. Marcus stumbled to the side but quickly recovered with a scratchy rub of his chin. "That kick was harder than I remember," he analyzed.

"And so is your head," Liam chided. The ace turned to reveal John. "How about it, Zoro, care for a match?" he offered. The combusken nonchalantly walked up to Liam's side for better inspection of this supposedly captivating opponent. Charles rushed him head on, stopping centimeters away to rise on two legs with a sniff. Zoro blinked back the surprise and quickly looked up at Liam. His eyes sparkled. The ace clapped his hands. "A pokemon battle it is then!" he announced.

"Alright, alright, we'll do it your way," Marcus relented. He couldn't figure out where to place his pokeball without a belt so he tossed it in the grass. Liam aimed a grin at John. "How 'bout it, Champ? Feeling up to a little morning practice?" he said.

Liam wasn't sure why, but John suddenly looked at him in a way that reached beyond the pressing challenge. "I don't think that's a good idea," John answered.

"Don't be so humble. Marcus could use a little ass whooping. I saw how you fought at the festival."

Marcus snarled. Liam swung his arm over John's shoulder as if to stroke another rise out of the beast. "If anything, do it for Marcus. He just started training pokemon and hasn't learned to let them fight their own battles yet. He needs the practice."

Liam clapped John on the back, spurring the trainer into a short step onto the battlefield. "The rules are simple," Liam began as he took up the role as referee. "Both trainers will use one pokemon each." He slowly glanced back and forth between both sides. "No items, no exchanges. Last pokemon standing is the winner." Several of the other students lined up along the edge of the battlefield as John and Marcus rearranged into proper pokemon battling position. Liam stood in the middle. He raised his hand at Marcus.

"Challenger: Marcus Hailbringer wants to battle," he announced like a true showman. The crowd gruffly approved. Liam looked the opposite way and raised his other hand. Something shaded his grace and John couldn't look away from it.

"Do you accept?" Liam asked.

Charles lifted a paw from the dirt in a glance over his shoulder. John looked at him and seemed to sigh. He closed his eyes and focused in on himself, accepting the fact that his fate was no longer entirely his own. That tended to happen when one crossed paths with a Valenis. "Yes," he answered, quietly but resolutely.

Liam's smile pulled a little wider. "Then let the battle begin!" He quickly ran off of the field. Neither party moved.

Marcus looked down at Zoro. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked.

"Commands, Marcus, commands," Liam yelled over to him. "He needs a plan. A strategy."

Marcus curled his lip with a swipe of his hand. "Strategy? Isn't it beat the hell out of the enemy?" Zoro put a palm to his face.

"Attacks, Marcus. Use attacks."

"Attacks?" Marcus looked down at his hand as if reading the list Liam once gave him on Zoro's skill. What was it? Fire kick, quick feet? "Aww shit. Just rush him, Zoro, and beat the hell outta'em!"

At least it was something. Zoro ran into the field. John stifled a smile but knew better than to underestimate an opponent. If this was going to be a rushing match, than there was no pokemon better than a linoone! "Let's do a little _slip and slide_ , Charles!" John instructed.

The linoone hit the dirt at full speed, aiming to collide with the fowl pokemon head on. Zoro closed the distance with a _quick attack_ but his talons came up empty as Charles suddenly darted to the side. Clouds of dust scratched up under his paws. He dashed by again from the opposite direction, just out of reach. Zoro needed a wider attack radius. Sparks of an _ember_ flickered from his mouth but now the linoone dashed from behind. Right, left, right, would he ever stop? The combusken took his chances. Charles slowed for a pivot. Zoro released the fiery barrage. Fireballs seared the grass with dull thuds. Charles zipped by without a trace of soot. Zoro ran after him but after another quick pivot, the only thing his talons scratched was dirt. More fireballs sprayed across the battlefield. Not a single one could keep up with the rushing pokemon running a straight line.

"Stop chasing him like a madman!" Marcus yelled. "Just wait for him to come to you!" He was getting just as frustrated as his pokemon.

Zoro jerked to a stop. But without another command to follow, the hesitation opened his guard. Charles _headbutted_ him from behind, using the combusken's body to bring his rush to a stop. Zoro flew across the battlefield. One twist and he landed on his feet, sliding backwards across the sandstone with one hand on the ground. Surprisingly enough, Charles also slid beside him, only, he didn't stop. While still in motion, the linoone popped all four feet off of the ground in a flying _tackle_ that sent both rolling across the dirt. Charles rolled right over his enemy into another dash towards John. He slid to a stop close to his trainer's feet. The sandy residue bounced against their legs.

"Great work, Charles," John exclaimed. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Life lesson#87: Never stop until defeat isn't just certain, but complete."

Liam cocked his head at the saying. It sounded exactly like something Sensei would say. He was sure Marcus would have thought the same if the gladiator wasn't deaf by the steam blowing out of his ears. Better give Zoro a fighting chance. "He's keeping his distance," Liam advised. "Use your fire not your feet."

Zoro nodded. He stamped a foot and the air around him rippled with heat. He spat another _ember_ much hotter and faster than before. John jumped to the right. Charles dashed to the left. Zoro mirrored the linoone, placing himself in line with the rushing pokemon's inevitable pivot at the edge of the battlefield limits. Charles turned. They connected their line of sight. Zoro blasted fire and fury. Charles' strength was in his speed, not his turns. A rush was powerful but predictable. He couldn't curve away from the attack . . . So he didn't.

Charles slammed on the brakes. He flattened himself against the ground. Several fireballs flew over him in a flutter of fur but just as many hit their mark. Two exploded against him, jarring him enough for the third to hit under his chin. Charles reared backwards. The talons of his opponent scratched madly in an attempt to catch him before he landed. Zoro's dash was still too slow. True to his species, Charles dashed off for the safety of distance. Another _double kick_ scuffed empty ground.

"Try it again," Marcus ordered. "Follow the lines!"

That was more like it. Marcus was finally starting to sound like a trainer. Charles kicked off again. Zoro lined up on the predicted path and let loose another sizzling shotgun. A double juke left the rounds nothing but dead puffs. Charles crisscrossed, opening up a new trajectory field. Zoro sprayed wide. Several fireballs singed the bushy brown tail of the rushing pokemon. It was working. "Reposition! Reposition!" Liam instructed as he took a step onto the battlefield.

Zoro filled his beak with as much oxygen as possible, clapped the spark, and shot another _ember_. The fireballs were bigger this time, pushing out into a wider spray from their own heat. Dodging was impossible. And that's why Charles didn't stop. He rushed head long into the barrage, into a twist, and brushed between the fiery flames without more than a ripple of his fur. Zoro missed but a collision was inevitable.

The combusken quickly crossed his hands in front of his face. Charles landed in front of him, swinging into a _tail whip_ that struck the face. It was too bushy to knock the fowl over but it did the trick. By the time his _tail_ cleared and Zoro lowered his guard, Charles whirled into a _headbutt_. It struck in the lower arms. The combusken rode a backwards slide, bent his knees, and sprang forward at the climax. Both hits to the _double kick_ struck Charles at the top of the head, pushing him into the ground and the fowl into the air. Charles swayed as he stood, unable to see his opponent land and charge with a _quick attack_ too fast to rush away from. But that's why he wasn't alone.

" _Close combat_!" John warned from somewhere in the haze.

Charles immediately curled his head into his tail. The plume buffered the first _kick_ and softened the second. He uncurled in a snap of teeth that proceeded a round of _fury swipes_. Feathers and fur littered the battlefield. Combusken fell to one knee with his hand on the ground, blood beginning to show between his feathers. Charles leaned on one side with a heavy squint to his eye. Their labored breathing filled the space in-between. They stared at one another. Liam jumped into the middle, despite having crossed the sideline some time ago.

"It's a tie!" he danced. "That was an amazing battle!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Marcus yelled, whitening his knuckles. "It's not over yet!"

"If you look closely, you'll see that the match is over," Liam answered. "Neither are technically standing, and if I remember correctly, those were the conditions of the battle. It's a gentleman's tie. Just look, both pokemon have acknowledge one another as a worthy opponent!"

"That's a load of Seelshit!"

The bright carnival smile of the ringleader suddenly sunk into something sinister. "Those were the rules," Liam reminded. "And you agreed to them."

"Don't give me that Ace trainer crap. I never should've listened to you. This fight isn't over. We should have done this right from the beginning."

"Cool down, Marcus, or you'll regret it," Liam threatened.

"Or what, you'll challenge me to a battle too? Please, a fight's a fight only if it's with your bare hands."

Shamed and too arrogant to admit defeat, Marcus ran straight for John. He meant to make amends using what he knew best. Physical combat. Shit. Liam quickly scooped up Zoro and Charles in each arm. He barely made it out of the way before Marcus stepped on his heels. John shifted onto his toes and sucked in his breath as the first fist shot past his head. The heat of the raging blood within burned the side of his cheek. John turned his face away from another strike. The energy pooled within those fists was explosive, but wild, passionate, and untamed.

John slid backwards, barely able to deter a blow that nearly exposed him to another. He tilted his head back from an uppercut. A drop of sweat from his chin broke against those bandaged knuckles. If Marcus had the conditioning of his senior self, John knew his jaw would have been shattered. His ribs too if he had not curled from a side kick in just enough time. Marcus tapped into something instinctual. He launched a fist into John's abdomen. The trainer caught it but the blow lifted John lightly off of his feet, creating just enough distance for a parry to the next blow, but not enough for the second.

John bent with the hit to his diaphragm. A sweep of the legs toppled him. He landed on his back, gasping and wincing against the sun. John rolled over onto his side, closing his eyes and using his training to slowly draw in a wisp of air. He coughed, gingerly touching his bandaged chest while slowly picking himself up off of the ground. Finally, a familiar feeling.

"Thanks," he wheezed, "for not going for the ribs. You could have easily broken them for a rack on the barbecue."

Marcus stood in front of his opponent, hands clenched as hard as his teeth. The crease of his brow deep enough to be a canyon on the map. "Shut up," he snapped. "And get up." He was irritated, and for reasons even the students could tell were beyond the usual boundaries.

"That's enough, Marcus," one of them exclaimed.

"Stay out of this," the gladiator barked with the short hairs of his neck rising in hackles. One of the other students pulled the brave soul back into line before the fight spread in their direction.

"Last one standing," John suddenly reminded as he put a foot underneath him. Liam stepped forward with both pokemon still in his arms. If they got free, it would only worsen the situation. With both arms tied, his halo fell across one eye. "You're hurt bad enough already," Liam cautioned.

"Oh, this isn't much," John wheezed with another cough. "I actually feel pretty good now that I've got my bandages to keep me in one piece. Just give me a minute to catch my breath."

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm fully aware," he answered firmly. Not a trace of sarcasm or regret in his voice. It silenced both the ace and the crowd. John staggered to his feet. His long limbs and slim waist exaggerated his shoulders, broadening his back to a length worth his height. Its shadow was that of a mountain, one capped white with snow.

"Just stay down. Everyone else here has," Marcus sneered, his rage cooling in the sudden shade.

"I can't do that," John smiled as he regained his breath in slow heavy drafts, "because that's not my motto. You said it yourself: never back down from a fight."

Marcus huffed. It sounded like the last snort of a tauros before it charged. There might have even been a trace of respect, but the gladiator made a commitment. There was no turning back, no matter how admirable the resolve before him. The fight would go on until one of them could stand no more. Last one standing. That was the rule they agreed to and that was the rule they would honor, and that was the rule the houndoom watching from the shade of the tree didn't give a shit about. He rose to his feet. It was about time someone put these humans in their place, and the only place he could think of was ten feet under.


	18. Hell Raiser: 2

**Hell Raiser: 2**

Marcus Hailbringer. Everyone in Cork City knew the name. One day, the world would too. Raw talent didn't cut it. He was a prodigy in technique and an artist in demonstration, utter genius in the way of motion, force, and body control. Any challenger to his claim was either foolish or stupid. Both applied to the man wrapped in bandages, currently taunting the prowess of a soon to be legend. The match should have been a knock out. A one hit punch. Yet there he was, the foolish and idiotic challenger, wiping his chin with a bandaged hand, like tickling a feather on the nose of a tyrant.

It didn't make sense, and neither did the shadow that suddenly flickered to life in the sunlight. It was neither foolish nor stupid. One of the students watching the fight between genius and clown caught something in the corner of his eye. He looked back at the path leading down to the dojo. When he didn't turn away, the heads of several others swiveled with him, until all eyes eventually turned away from the match. Liam caught onto the trend with curiosity. Marcus looked up out of predatory instinct. John smudged the corner of a tired smile with his thumb.

The path they looked at was little more than a flattened dirt trail, much like the dry sandy clay of the battlefield. Vegetation flanked it on either side but it rapidly withered in a ripple of heat. The sudden heat wave visually dried and widened the trail as if they peered down the ridge of a desert dune. There wasn't a fire nearby and mid-morning light couldn't create such mirages. There was no explanation to the heat's source other than the pokemon that walked within it.

Lopo walked up the path. There was something odd about seeing a creature of the night in the day that pushed the crowd back upon his approach. They kept their whispers silent. To speak would draw the houndoom's gaze. He walked without haste, head low and tail ticking in rhythm with his gait. Double shifts drooped the skin around his eyes. Staying awake when one's supposed to be asleep created an air of hostility with every breath. It made the narrow squint of his eye that much more dangerous. The houndoom made a slow and monumental stop alongside John as if the doors of a great golden hall had shut, closing off the world to its light forever. The distance between him and the crowd suddenly stretched into a No Man's Land. Its sole occupant and focus of war: Marcus Hailbringer.

John patted the houndoom on the back. "Don't worry, Lopo, it's alright. _I'm alright_ ," he said. Not a single one of those pats diverted the canine's black eyes. His tail stopped swinging.

Marcus worked his jaw. "Looks like you're all talk," he said. "Making your pokemon fight your battles for you?" His eyes shifted away from pokemon to trainer. In that instant, Lopo vanished underneath John's hand. Marcus grabbed the curled horns only after they rammed into his chest. He fell back several steps, holding the _feint attack_ at his chest. They came to a standstill. Each side pressed against one another: Lopo with all four paws on the ground and Marcus pushing against the canine's horns at an angle. A grunt escaped his clenched teeth. Both arms shook. He looked down at the dark pokemon. Lopo looked up and pressed forward. His paws, pounding the dirt harder than hooves dredging a train up a track.

Marcus kept his grip even when his feet began to slide backwards. Mere friction couldn't hold the canine back. Lopo gained momentum. His back legs kicked. His tail whipped. Another push and he shoved Marcus further back. When the gladiator didn't fall, he spat out a mouthful of flame. It splashed against Marcus' knees. The gladiator changed his stance but Lopo didn't stop. One toe off of the ground was enough. The houndoom derailed the gladiator. Marcus tumbled backwards, releasing his hold as the sharp serrated edges of Lopo's horns cut through his palms.

Shreds of bandage and blood flew into the air. Marcus hit the ground. Lopo plowed over him, yanking his head straight, hoping a claw or two hit its mark in the process. He cleared the fighter, jumped against a tree in a rebound, and leapt for Marcus' head. A soulful uppercut cut off the advance. It went straight through the canine, or rather, its doppelganger. A second houndoom chased behind the first, jaws wide and welcoming.

Marcus once saw a lighter ignite in slow motion. He wasn't into television but happened to be standing in front of one featuring a slow motion special at an airport during his travels. Now, it was real life. Lopo's tongue flicked off of the roof of his mouth. The sandpaper scratched the ridges, curling back to the gum line for full coverage. Like flint and stone, sparks flew. They dropped directly into the fumes roaring up the canine's windpipe. Specially lined lungs made sure the flames would sting as much as they burned. The sparks ignited in a soft organic ribbon of color, only viewable from within the darkness of the back of the throat at full extension. Who knew a _flamethrower_ could be so beautiful, and terrifying?

"Perseus!"

A set of white feet landed on Lopo's snout, forcing his jaws shut in a sharp clap of white teeth. The houndoom landed short of his target and tossed off a medicham from his head, only to have the pokemon return again, this time, with a _force palm_ that landed between his eyes. The touch itself was gentle, but the energy that ran through it hit Lopo harder than a stroke. His body stilled before collapsing. The meditation pokemon then jumped into the air, kicking Lopo's head to the ground faster than the gravity of his fall. He hit and Medicham silently flipped in the air, bounced off of the ground, and came eye to eye with Marcus.

Before the gladiator could utter a curse, he too received a _force palm_ to the forehead. His eyes rolled back and he hit the ground, still as the houndoom beside him. Perseus, the Medicham, landed gracefully between them. He danced for three turns in some sort of cleansing ritual before the dull pounding of a staff called him back again. The pokemon jumped high into the air, over the crowd, and landed at the top of a crooked staff. The hand that wielded it once flattened acres of mountain rock in a single stamp. Those hands once birthed a clutch of pokemon eggs and broke the back of a cedar tree. The feet below would not be outdone. They carved canyons with every shuffle. Gym Leader and Dojo Master, Ruji Takahashi, pinched his white bushy eyebrows at the crowd.

Shorter than his staff and only about five feet at most, he stood taller than every head in the crowd. His brown wrinkled, liver spotted skin caused youths to dry and wither upon contact. The stoop of his shoulders taught mountains how to roll and the thin scraggly beard from his chin showed waterfalls how to freeze. The students bowed deeply upon his arrival. All except Liam who bowed as much as he could with two pokemon in his arms, and John who could only manage a bow of the head without falling over. Master Ruji shuffled forward. It was the only sound for miles. He carefully glanced back and forth between the two parties.

"Now, I know I told my students to prepare for morning meditation with a little stretching and a light warm up," he began. His voice rickety and yet it was the student's legs that trembled. "And here I thought I was helping them refocus and prepare for the laborious training ahead." Master Ruji made his way over to Marcus who lay flat and unconscious on the ground. He turned an eye down at him. "Far be it for me to actually trust them with such a simple task."

"Forgive me, Master," John suddenly exclaimed. He stepped out of his discomfort, forcibly placing his arms at his side to bow as deeply as the others. "But the fault is not their own. My presence-

-should have been handled with a little more respect," Master Ruji finished. Perseus, jumped onto his shoulder as he prodded Marcus with the butt of his staff. "Admirable, my son, but I know this brute all too well." He then turned straight to Liam and looked down at the pokemon in his arms. They did not squirm under his gaze. Ruji looked at Liam again. "And I suppose your hand in this was only the helping kind?" he said.

Liam turned his eyes to the side with a purse of a guilty smirk. Master Ruji curled up a frown and shuffled into the middle of the frozen melee. "There is no excuse for such disobedient and uncouth behavior," he exclaimed. The students flinched a little deeper into their bows. "If you lot want to act like animals, than you will be treated as such. Live as a family, punished as a family! For letting your brother run rampant, when you're _fully_ aware of what he is capable of, just because you're too god damned scared to try, you WILL be punished."

His shout disturbed the murkrow in the distant trees. Their caws echoed over the living graveyard. Only one found life within it. "Master," John said again. "I take full responsibility."

Liam wanted to choke the trainer into silence but his hands were already full. Master Ruji tapped his staff in rhythm with his shuffle as he made his way towards the path. "As you should," Ruji barked. His eyes flicked over to the houndoom lying on the ground. They were deep and dark, reaching somewhere even he drew caution from. Luckily for that shadow, there was a light to go with it. Otherwise, it would have been purged.

"It was my pokemon that lost control, and therefore, my fault. Please, do not punish the other students," John continued. Master Ruji kept going.

"One house, one punishment. Unless you plan on taking the responsibility of every single one of your fellow students, I advise you to keep your mouth-

-I will!" John firmly announced.

Mater Ruji stopped. The butt of his staff carefully and quietly, stamped the path. The invisible pulse created by it lifted the heads of the braver and more curious students. To take responsibility for every student was to take every punishment. Should they all be tasked to run to the well with two water buckets, he would shoulder them all. No takebacks, mistakes, or misspoken words. Not in this dojo. Charles squirmed in Liam's arms. Whether he understood what danger his trainer was in or if he had enough of the highlife, the linoone slipped free. Liam couldn't stop him while experiencing the shock of John's outburst. What was he thinking?

Charles hit the ground in a rush and ran between John's legs. He stared out into the stupefied crowd. Master Ruji slowly turned around. His staff struck the ground again, this time, better than a stake. He narrowed his thick eyebrows at the student wrapped in bandages. He did not waver. John stood at full height, shoulders back and low. Long lanky arms anchored by fists, clenched in determination and not restraint, hung at his sides. His hair was disheveled. It resembled the shiny coat of his linoone below, soft, even against the perils of battle. Charles' blue eyes were just as unwavering as his trainer's. They were the only ones on the training grounds who meant to be exactly where they were. The only ones sticking true to the teachings of the dojo.

"I accept all punishment," John repeated. The words were not spoken loudly. They were not meant for the crowd to hear. Master Ruji may not have heard them either. His age was old enough to take more than that from him, but in return, it gave him something much more powerful. He looked at John carefully. Deeply.

"Very well," Master Ruji finally said. "The house is yours: every board, every screen, and every grain of sand, yours to clean."

John bowed, this time, in gratitude. "Yes, Master."

Master Ruji pinched his eye a little tighter, unsure of exactly what it was he saw, but he could not find a reason to question it, so he turned back to the others. It'd take the lad half a day just to walk back to the dojo in that condition anyway. As long as there wasn't any more trouble, Ruji wasn't concerned about a single porch sweeping.

"At least, I have one student with the balls to admit he made a mistake," he announced with a scan through the crowd. They looked down in shame once more. "The rest of you can reflect upon how this morning _should_ have proceeded, while running an extra 20 laps around the compound." Not even fine discipline could stop the general moan that followed. "And would somebody wake that idiot up? Unless, you're willing to carry him those twenty laps!"

The students scrambled to gather some water in a pail from a nearby spigot. They sloshed it across Marcus without mercy. He flinched awake and not so gracefully. Fists went flying. Master Ruji crackled in delight with a toothy grin as his students hustled to start their morning marathon. He took such joy in the extra aerobic lessons, supplemental conditioning training, and last minute suicide sprints that his laughter continued all the way into the evening. The crickets chirped in mimicry of him as he walked through the compound, the hour now far past sunset.

The dojo had fallen too far into routine lately. Spicing things up with an extra dash of manual labor and a whole lot of supervision made on hell of a training day for the students and a heck of a lot of fun for Master Ruji. Boys would be boys. They will fight and bicker out of sheer instinct, even in times of peace. It was good to go one on one with them once in a while and _strengthen_ the bond between master and student. It kept them humble . . . and flat on their asses with every match. Master Ruji flung his head back into another crackle. He needed a good laugh. The dojo was stuffy. Not a single student had stepped out of line, slacked off, or shown off all week. Hell, he hadn't even been able to pull off a good prank without more than a "Good one, Sensei."

Master Ruji dropped his head with a thrust of his bottom lip. Normally, he can get at least a little rise from the students, but lately, they were starting to act like his wife: sour pills. Master Ruji sunk into his hunch, thrusting his lip out further as he walked down the main house veranda. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. No staff or pokemon to accompany him this time. Not even the glowing lanterns along the arches could brighten his expression. "The tea's too weak. Move your feet out of the bed. Trim your whiskers. Don't water the orchids or you'll kill them just like our marriage!" his wife shrieked in his memory.

Master Ruji stuck out his tongue. It was hard enough to get rid of the old bag on a good day but lately she's been more bitter than usual. All day, it's been "bad energy" this and "aura disturbance" that. "I want him gone as soon as possible" his wife demands and yet she refuses to give a valid explanation as to why. It all started with their recent patient arrival. They've taken specialty cases from hospitals before, so what was the problem? Master Ruji relaxed his frown.

At least, he could still rely on his dojo. The students felt the same about the complex as Ruji did his wife: exasperated resentment. Using students for general upkeep and repairs was like pulling teeth. Nobody wants to clean dishes or fold laundry at the region's best fighting type pokemon gym. Undisciplined brats. They have no idea the kind of odor that radiates from their daily dirty laundry. The sweat bags. If they were at master level, they wouldn't break a sweat until after breaking a few bones.

Master Ruji stopped. Speaking of dojo upkeep. There was something different about this section of walkway. He glanced up and around until he finally settled on the disturbance. He leaned closer to the paper lattice wall and pinched his eyes at one corner square. There used to be a hole there, an arrow tipped tear that would flap open and remind the passerby that it was in need of repair, then settle back, giving them an excuse to keep going. A fresh sheet was placed within. He could tell from the paper's clean stiffness. The lattice around it was also dusted. In fact, the entire wall had been wiped clean. The wood shined but not nearly as bright as the panels of the veranda below. Master Ruji lifted his feet. Not a splinter or sand grain stuck between his toes. The entire walkway was brushed, washed, and polished including the posts. The reddish brown hue radiated with the warm light of the lanterns.

Fresh candles burned brightly within. Any trace of old wax had been scrapped away and the faded spheres were replaced with brightly colored orbs. Either his students took it upon themselves to clean as a desperate act of penance or he was in a dream, one where he was just a lad because that was the last time he remembered the house being in such good condition. It must be a dream . . . and he had taken to sleep walking.

Master Ruji continued down the walkway and stopped at the corner. He glanced down the length of the porch towards the middle and saw a student sitting on the edge. A linoone ran up to him with a cloth in his mouth. He took the cloth and wiped his brow with it. It was the same student from this morning. Physical labor blushed his face and hard work polished his weakened smile. He set the smaller cloth over the towel already slung over his shoulder. The bandages around his hands, feet, shins, and forearms were darkened with wood stain. The legs of his pants matched. He moved slowly as he collected his tools and equipment, unstrapping the polishing towels he had wrapped over the linoone's feet. Master Ruji glanced around the main house again.

Was the student just now finishing up? But those bandages, weren't they his wife's work? None of his students found themselves in _that_ much trouble the past few weeks. The only one in such a state was the patient flown in yesterday from Garden Cruise. But that couldn't be him. Merely, strolling across the compound would have made him dizzy from what Master Ruji understood. Pain weakened resolve. It was hard enough coping with it let alone using it to fuel an ambition. Only a master had such skill. True, his wife's work in medicine was practically supernatural, but this _one_ student had performed a full sweep of the entire main house, top to bottom, completely on his own?

The other students were too busy with their disciplinary activities all day to bother with maintenance. They definitely wouldn't help with chores given they could barely lift their arms after weight training. He didn't remember giving this student a tour either. His wife, Whey, would not have set foot in his direction, let alone explain what chores needed to be done, if this indeed was her bad aura splitting patient. The lad knew exactly what, where, and how everything needed to be done from tool gathering to waxing technique. He was definitely one of his students. So why was his face so unfamiliar? Time to find out.

"I figured you had some help," Master Ruji said as he suddenly appeared beside John.

"Master!" John scrambled to stand but Ruji waved away the formality. He sat next to John on the edge of the boardwalk with a grunting sigh. He held his hands in his sleeves but broke them to pat his lap. Charles took the invitation, especially when a candy wrapper wrinkled in the old man's hands. Master Ruji winked. "We martial artists wear these sleeves for a reason," he said. "It's my secret stash."

John wasn't sure if he should smile or grovel at the old man's feet, although, they barely touched the sand garden below. Charles crept onto Ruji's lap, pulling up half of his long body and stretching out his back legs behind him, eyes focused on nothing but the treat. Ruji carefully unwrapped the candy and passed it off. Charles took it and immediately dashed off with his prize.

"Charles!" John quickly reprimanded.

"No harm done," Master Ruji chuckled. "If these bones a'mine can't take a little enthusiasm than I'm in the wrong business. Besides," he crossed his legs and hid his arms in his sleeves again. "That much hard work deserves a little reward."

"Sometimes, I think he works harder than me," John smiled. "When he can focus long enough." The rushing pokemon sped past them with the treat still between his teeth. He passed by again going the opposite direction. He learned that trick from an old friend.

"Your pokemon are very spirited," Master Ruji said. "I can see where they get it from." He slowly turned an eye at John. The trainer quickly blushed and brought his legs into the same fold as Ruji's.

"I've seen professional athletes fall to Marcus quicker than you did. Where did you study?" Ruji asked.

John scratched the back of his head but didn't make eye contact. "Oh, just this little old place in the mountains. Nowhere special. More of a family practice than anything else," he said.

Master Ruji tilted his chin up ever so lightly as if it gave his sixth sense a better vantage point. "No need to be humble," he said.

"It was nothing," John sheepishly mumbled.

"Take pride in your heritage," Master Ruji commanded.

"I-

-SPIT IT OUT."

"Cork City!"

John flinched. This time, he truly slapped a hand over his mouth. Master Ruji chuckled again. It crackled better than a slow sinister flame. He knew it. The boy was too honest to lie under pressure. "Of course it is," Master Ruji continued much more tenderly, and proudly, than before. "I can tell just from your technique. I saw you fight enough to recognize one of my own."

John relaxed with a quiet sigh. He removed his hand from his mouth. It couldn't stop the secrets from spilling out anyway. A burden lifted from him at the confession but it only seemed to tire him out even more. As he should be. A full cleaning work up like this often replaced a full day's training. Master Ruji looked at John's bandages. He had seen the damage himself and knew John's smile to be an effort. He would not waste it.

"Plus," Master Ruji continued, "You and your pokemon polished the floor with the experience of a thousand practices." There was no hiding muscle memory under a shallow lie. "And it explains why your injuries have responded so well to treatment that usually takes months for a first time patient to acclimate too." Mater Ruji adjusted his arms. "But then again, you aren't a first time patient." He turned to John again. "Are you?"

The trainer slowly shook his head. "But, you're not a student here?" Another shake. "Yet you walk this dojo as if raised here." John kept silent. Master Ruji looked up and lifted his chin again with a long inhale. He let it out slowly to breeze through the list of previous students that could have mentored the boy so thoroughly. There wasn't a single one.

"You have not called me, "Sensei", not once," Ruji tried again, "But instead, used only "Master". Who is it then, that you hold so dear a title, your "Sensei"?"

John gripped his pants tightly. Master Ruji felt the sudden surge of energy from the trainer spiral into a tight ball into his center. It was a technique only the most passionate and powerful expressed, either to restrain their physical desire to rampage, or in John's case, contain an emotional overflow.

"Forgive me, Master, but there are some things that I cannot say," John confessed. Master Ruji looked at him from the side again. The trainer refused to raise his gaze, his eyes fixated on something that could _not_ be broken under pressure.

"I know why you're here," Master Ruji said. He quickly glanced to the opposite side of the garden. The shadow lurking upon the veranda stopped. Ruji didn't have to see it to know that it was the houndoom. "I make it a point to know everyone and everything that comes into my dojo," he continued to make sure John didn't notice the shadow stalking them. Lopo read something in that stare and continued walking towards them, this time, a little more into the light. His steps were heavy. From the blow Perseus had given him, he shouldn't have been walking at all until morning.

"Then, you should know that what I have to say is crazy," John admitted.

Master Ruji threw his head back in another laugh. "According to who?" he cried. "Those over analytical medical bastards? I've seen more shit in shallow meditation than those idiots have ever experienced on drugs!"

John lifted out of his secret as the cackling continued. "Come, boy. We'll have some tea, and _then_ you can tell me just what it is that I haven't heard already!"

. . .

He hadn't heard this already.

In theory, yes. Through meditation, imagination, and reflection, yes. But literally?

Master Ruji kept an iron face during John's story. They sat in the main house tea room. He offered no snide remarks or scoffs, only the occasional nod of the head and light attentive grunt. The boy was convincing. Every ounce of his memory believed his tale even if no one else did. Certain details, John kept quiet, afraid of sharing them should they alter the world that he had left behind. Master Ruji was not convinced the boy was out of his mind but he would never have believed him completely if John didn't provide evidence. Master Ruji looked at the blue and silver feather presented before him. It looked strange under the warm yellow light of the candles, but when John handed him the feather, and he lifted it up into the cool shadows of moonlight, the feather emitted a silent radiance like the eye of a hurricane.

Master Ruji looked down at John. "Fetch me my wife," he commanded.

Three cups steamed upon the tea table several minutes later. Lopo laid on the far side of the room with an empty sake dish next to his crossed paws. Charles lay flat on a tatami mat, snoring with enough politeness so as not to disturb the others. Three dishes pillowed his head. John sat cross-legged beside the table. He kept his hands neatly in his lap, making sure to stay still as Master Ruji examined him in a way his wife, sitting next to them, could not. The master's hand hovered over the center of John's chest. Boney fingers trembled lightly, and not just with age. They turned and shifted ever so slightly, in tune with the master's expression. Ruji kept his eyes closed in concentration.

Tracing chi lines was not easy, even for a master like himself. Especially when they weren't normal. John's lines were unlike anything he had ever seen. Bold, vibrant, and swifter than the rapids of a river. This anomaly could not be created overnight, or by a pokemon, no matter how powerful it may be. Something, or someone, had massaged John's inner clockwork as he grew, opening his chi lines to channel at maximum capacity. Should he have had the same amount of chi running through his internal pipeline as someone like Marcus, he would have been unstoppable, and in more ways than just one.

And that wasn't even the odd part. Nothing about any of it seemed unnatural. Charles and Lopo had the same odd displacement too. Whatever had touched John as a child, and his pokemon, was beyond him. Now, Master Ruji understood why his wife was so upset. If this was indeed a time traveler sitting before them, it would make one hell of a disturbance in the energy field. Master Ruji lowered his hand in a huff. Whatever Whey heard in that grunt, she wasn't pleased because she turned to her husband in a series of foreign chatter that even John could tell were insults as much as complaints. Master Ruji rolled his eyes and snapped back a few of his own. They were enough to satisfy Whey's scowl. She carefully sipped her tea at the table. Lopo yawned.

"You're story is farfetched," Master Ruji began, "and yet so are the leek fields of many a farmer." He reached over, took a saucer of sake, and poured himself another drink. "I can only assume it was fate that brought you here," he continued, "or maybe time trying to work itself out, or even a delusion so powerful that it reached the outer world. I don't know. I only know that you are here." He downed the drink with a wince. "And that this sake is terrible. Make sure you drink the rest of it." He poured John a hefty portion into his tea.

"I know you are in pain despite how well you conceal it," Master Ruji continued. "Those injuries are no fantasy." His eyes suddenly flicked to the crack in the door. A shadow fluttered upon discovery but did not run in acceptance of being acknowledged. Instead, it pushed the door open. Whey glanced up from her cup, John turned around, and Master Ruji gently set his saucer back on the table.

"What do you want, brat kid?" he barked. Liam Valenis sat back on his heels.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," he began, "I can come back at a later time."

The usual purr to his words made Master Ruji want to throw his cup instead of taking a sip from it. "Get on with it!" he ordered.

"Actually, I was hoping to take John down to McAlister's to meet with the other students in a _proper_ welcome. That is, if he is medically able." Liam glanced over at Whey as he rightfully should have. Without medical clearance for a patient, one injured student became two. She closed her eyes and sipped her tea. Master Ruji turned to John. The trainer's wide eyes begged for an excuse _not_ to go. So that's why he practically jumped at the first opportunity to isolate himself from the other students. Afraid to alter the future, perhaps? But if John was so obstinate over his secrets, how would an old man like him know what to protect the traveler from? Master Ruji pulled out a broad gap toothed grin. "Of course," he answered. "A little fun will lift his spirits."

Like the kid needed any more spiritual aptitude, but future or present, Master Ruji loved to mess with his students. And t _hat_ would never change with time.


	19. Hell Raiser: 3

**Hell Raiser: 3**

The great wide doors of the dojo sighed open in the warm summer night. Two trainers slipped out on its breath. Liam didn't bother to close the doors behind them. They were headed to McAlister's to meet up with the other students for a little _extracurricular_ activity. Clearing a path for several inebriated trainers on their way back from a good time wasn't just smart, it was a safety mechanism. Besides, it's not like these doors were ever truly shut. Liam ran a hand along the wood grain. He'd be in big trouble if they were. A sharp hiccup streaked through the night. Someone had beat them to the festivities.

Liam looked over as John tried to get his linoone to stand on his own four feet. Charles swayed, the four dishes of sake catching up to him. They sloshed in his stomach as he slumped to the ground with a tongue stuck between his teeth. John sighed and picked up the rushing pokemon. There were no outdoor lights beyond the walls of the compound but the night was clear. Starlight washed over the pair, causing John's bandages to glow in the night. Black and blue no longer covered his skin. It was too white for Liam's eyes. He walked over and held out his jacket for John to take.

"Feeling any better?" the ace asked. "You look like a mummy."

Despite Cork City's acceptance of the dojo's practices, injuries were still injuries. Flaunting them received ridicule and reprimand. Pity parties were few and far between. John accepted the jacket without asking why, even on a warm night like this. He then put on a smile as white as the glow emanating from him. "This is actually the best I've felt the past two days," the trainer admitted. "There's no better treatment than that from a Cork City gym leader's wife. To tell you the truth, I get a little stiff without working up a sweat. Cleaning helps clear your head." John's glow dulled as he slipped his arms through the jacket. Even with it on, all Liam could see were the bandages. The ace came up beside the trainer and both looked down the open dirt road to the stone laden, roughhewn city built into the side of a mountain. Neither actually peered into it.

"That must've been one hell of a pokemon to put you through the ringer like that," Liam began. He extended his concern, lightly, delicately, waiting to see where John was willing to go. "You can't be too careful when it comes to pokemon."

"Especially one that lands you flat on your ass," John laughed. Liam smiled again. That was the John he remembered. That was the John Liam had hoped awoke from his _confusion_.

"Most of the time you never see it coming," John mused. "I've been beaten, stepped on, insulted, and rearranged by more pokemon than I can count, and half of those I consider friends. _Heh._ Once, I was almost eaten alive by this arbok as a kid. Sometimes we'd see it on the mountain during migration, and one year, I had the luck to step on his tail and send him on a vendetta that nearly cost me my neurological function." Both bowed their heads in opposite directions, knowing full well what had transpired at Garden Cruise Memorial, and just how close he had come to losing it again. Somber silence filled the conversation. John pulled off a classic ball from his belt and rolled it in his hands a few times. "What you said about me on the grounds this morning, were you joking?" he asked.

The trainer may have been broken but he wasn't bad. Liam believed that whole heartedly. He wouldn't taint those white bandages with a lie. Not this time. "You mean about saving my skin in Boulder?" Liam absently replied.

"I'm not much of the hero type," John explained. "Most of the time, I play, well . . . the victim."

"Not the other night, you didn't. Do you really remember nothing?"

"Bits and pieces, but it never sticks or really comes together."

Liam unconsciously relaxed until John's sleeves pulled up and revealed his white wrists. The ace tried to convince himself that the trainer's injuries could have been much worse if he hadn't been there to intervene. But at the same time, most of those bruises could have been avoided if John hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Liam turned his eyes away. It was better John didn't remember. The less he knew about his close encounter with the grunts and the Royal Jewels, the better. Plus, amnesia was a perfect alibi. Liam's secrets were safe. John now was too. He no longer needed a guardian angel. It was a win-win scenario . . . right?

John enlarged the classic ball, squatted down, and withdrew Charles before the linoone rolled down the road. It jogged Liam's memory, and gave him an excuse to pick up his halo again. "That's right," he exclaimed while reaching for his pokebelt. A green and silver friend ball filled his hand. "A replacement for your houndoom's ball. I figured you would want to do the honors. The original was smashed in-well . . . all the chaos." No point upsetting John with the gruesome details when he was just starting to feel better. Liam held out the ball and John took it.

"I completely forgot!" John admitted as he enlarged it. He had no clue. No blame whatsoever. Liam's gut churned with sour butter. "Thanks," John continued. "You didn't have to do that. I would've gotten another, eventually. Free range is pretty natural for us."

Liam breathed a sigh of relief. "Where is that black spot anyway?" he asked, happy to find gratitude instead of more guilt. "I didn't see him- _oh shi_ -!" Liam softened his curse to a hiss when he realized that the houndoom was right beside him. Lopo nudged John's side with his horn. He then nudged his muzzle against the arm holding the ball. John brought the pokeball closer to him.

"What? You want in?" he asked. Lopo raised his head and looked at him. It could have been the downward tilt of John's head but his eyes suddenly lost their glimmer. He slowly repositioned the ball, and before he could stimulate a capture, Lopo met him halfway and pushed his nose into the release. The transfer should have been blinding in the darkness but only a pale gray light flashed from the energy surge. Its brightest glow barely met the gray reflection of John's sweat pants before it turned black and melted into the night. The only indication that the release activated was the _click_ of the lid as it snapped shut.

John stood, quietly looking at the ball in his hand. It was possible he was just making sure the seal was tight but as far as Liam could tell, there wasn't a rumble in the mechanics. Most trainers would jump in place, release their anxiety, or find some joy in relinking with their pokemon. Something about holding that power in your hand, knowing it was bound to you, put a spark in one's soul. Everyone's, except John's. There wasn't even a pop of frictional static. He quickly minimized the ball and fastened it to his belt. He then cleared his throat and scratched his head with a smile. "We're headed to McAlister's, right?" he laughed. "I hope the food's as good as I remember. I'm not one for tea and rice every night."

"You, and the rest of the guys," Liam said, allowing the moment to pass.

John started down the path. His tall thin, bandaged form, even when covered, looked ghostly in the night. Very much like the armor of his canine. Liam didn't remember telling John the way to McAlister's, but the trainer was once a student here. A student that a live-in disciple like Marcus couldn't remember. Alas, his duality remained even in waking consciousness. Liam chewed on the thought as he followed John down the road. It was the first time he witnessed the trainer at his usual gait. No stumbling or fumbling this time around, although it did work for him in Boulder. That festival fight was one of the best Liam had ever seen. Straight out of a Kung-Foo movie, John's seemingly drunken fists bested every challenge imposed upon them. Confident and unwavering, he not only took hits but delivered them. Raw unfiltered passion had pulsed through his veins, just like the other hot heads in the dojo.

Because of that, Liam didn't question the fact that John learned to fight from the teachings of Cork City Gym. This morning's confrontation with Marcus, short and one sided as it was, however, told a much different story about the trainer's style. Passive and playful, every movement and gesture obeyed the rules of combat. Even at the teeth of a raging chisel jawed knuckle-head, John's entire posture remained at ease, not in the same calm confidence at the festival, but with kindness. Winning didn't make him happy. Making other people happy did. It was funny. For a fighter, John didn't have much of a fighting spirit. No wonder Marcus wanted to chew him to bits. "Who does that bastard think he is?" Marcus yelled in recent memory, "trying to show us up by taking full disciplinary action in that state. I'll show him. Not with twenty laps around the compound, but forty!"

Somehow, the whole ordeal had turned into a competition. His fellow students couldn't say the same. Coming home from a training day of hell to clean floors, fresh linens, and no chores deserved a round of applause. Not another beating. Liam and John stood outside the front door of McAlister's Pub and Grill. The best, and only, place to eat in all Cork City. The door didn't sit quite right. Being blown off, crashed through, and splintered on a routine basis weakened the hinges over the years. Muffled music strummed within. Hearty shouts even louder than the music indicated that several occupants were already rather merry. Then, something wooden scratched across the floor. Glass shattered.

"I don't think this is such a good idea," John exclaimed.

"Sure it is," Liam replied. "All the guys owe you a drink. After all, without you, _they_ would have been victim to Marcus' tantrum _and_ Sensei's nagging."

John disagreed with a push of his lip.

"Their words, not mine," Liam added. He grabbed the handle and opened the door. "Heads up!" somebody shouted from a back table. Several peanut shells and an empty beer bottle greeted them. Liam already had a pokeball in hand by the time John looked up and realized what was coming straight for his face. Zoro, the combusken, grabbed the bottle out of the air and landed on a nearby cocktail table with the empty beverage in hand. A cheer went up from the surrounding students. 10 for 10 in the drunken Olympics. The student responsible for the projectile didn't have the voice to join in as a set of biceps wrapped around his neck.

"What'd I tell ya knuckle'eads 'bout bustin' me'bar!" Harvey McAlister, owner of the establishment, growled. His accent always came out while in a rage. He held the student in a chokehold. The curl of his bowling ball mustache highlighted his rosy cheeks. He stood on equal terms with John but weighed three times as much. Most visitors expected to see him in suspenders at the circus rather than an apron as cook, owner, and bartender of a backwoods eatery. But then again, one had to be able to manhandle customers when they got too rowdy. Especially, when they trained at a pokemon gym.

The guilty party gurgled a tap out. Satisfied with the reply, Harvey released the student with a tug of his apron. The other students jeered before rearranging tables and pulling in chairs to sit with one another now that the guest of honor had arrived. Zoro quietly set the bottle upright on the table. He then organized the plastic salt and pepper shakers to avoid looking at Marcus as he sauntered up to the new arrivals. "I was wondering where ya went, Zoro," he greeted while raising a bottle to his lips. The combusken jumped away onto another table and began cleaning anew. "Hey," Marcus called after him with a lift of his shoulders. "What did I do?"

With the help of a _double kick_ , Zoro jumped over the gap between tables and landed on the bar. Liam leaned against it with an elbow. "That's twice in one day you left him behind," Liam explained. "You've hurt his feelings."

Harvey came around behind the bar. He pulled out one shot glass, set it next to Liam, and one sake dish in front of Zoro. "Aww, come on, it was an accident," Marcus insisted as he walked a little closer. Zoro kept his back to him, sat down cross-legged, and patiently waited as Harvey poured a small amount of fireball liquor into his saucer. It was strong enough to match his energy type. Marcus caught the label on the bottle and quickly pointed at the bartender. "You said you didn't carry that!" he cried.

"I don't. Not fer da likes of you," Harvey explained. "If your blood got any hotter, you'd hemorrhage."

"But what about him?" Marcus questioned.

Liam innocently raised his eyes as Harvey topped off his glass. "Him?" Harvey scoffed. "He' got da coin to pay fer it."

Liam toasted Marcus before downing the shot. It ran smooth until the kick put him into a hack. Marcus sneered down a jealous swig. His eyes then flicked to John. It wasn't quite disgust that wrinkled his brow but John could have easily mistaken the look for it. "You still followin' him around, fanboy?" he asked in reference to Liam.

"Don't be jealous," the ace quickly interjected as he stepped away from the bar and grabbed John by the shoulders. "We're here to celebrate the survival of another day in Master Ruji's dungeon of torture and despair."

"No fighter who choses cleaning over training deserves to celebrate with us."

"Then clearly you haven't done a full workup in the dojo in a while," Liam snapped back. What was Marcus drinking, gun powder? Because he was spewing nothing but bullets. John must have gotten him even more riled up than he realized. Better change the ammunition.

"It's a shame you'd rather exile him than let him stay," Liam began as he pushed John closer to the others. Marcus took another swig to avoid looking at them as they passed. "Cuz' John here said the first two rounds are on him."

Marcus coughed the nozzle right out of his mouth. A whistle and applause from the peanut gallery backed Marcus into a corner. Liam handed John off to the other students who were already welcoming him like old friends. Marcus worked his jaw. He then glanced at Zoro who continued to quietly sip his oversized drink. No pity party there. No drinks either.

"Fine," Marcus said to himself before he turned to the others, "but it still doesn't change my mind!"

Someone plopped John down at the corner of a set of four tables pressed together. Liam maneuvered into the chair next to him. "B-but I can't-," John began but Liam cut him off by waving him closer. The two leaned in.

"I'll tell you a little secret," he said, "I'm rich as sin. I've got so much coin coming out' my ears that I could change the map of Valenis if I wanted to. Here." He took an unmanned beer, set it in front of John, and put an elbow on the table. "Have a drink, sit back, and relax. Oh! And I almost forgot."

Liam reached into his pocket. He pulled out a Cork City gym badge, washed and polished to its former glory. Or at least, what he could manage. The ace set it on the table with a _clack_ sharper than a high roller poker chip. "I believe, _this_ is yours."

John picked it up with a huff. It was like he found a match to a pair of favorite socks once thought lost in the dryer. It was an interesting reaction considering Harvey had his Cork City gym badge mounted on the wall behind the bar in gold. "Where did you get this?" John asked with a small glance over his shoulder.

"You dropped it back in Boulder," Liam explained. Why bring up unpleasant details of resisting arrest, stealing, and snapping off handcuffs, if John couldn't remember it anyway? Liam placed his head in his hand. "It's yours, isn't it?" he quizzed.

"Of course!" John quickly replied with another glance over his shoulder, this time, at the high spirited training junkies surrounding him. "But I gave it to . . ." His words trailed off in the same way his gaze had done when looking at the friend ball. Was he trying to remember something his _confusion_ had stolen from him? What Liam had stolen from him? The thought softened the ace's inquiry.

"Who?" he gently picked up. More so now to help coax a memory forth than information.

John grabbed the beer in front of him and slid it around. "A friend," was all he said.

The term was loosely applied considering John's immediate attachment to him in the Boulder Jailhouse. Plus, with the trainer's new found _confusion_ induced delusion of time warping, God only knew who this "friend" really was. And given Liam's own use of the word, it was all he needed not to press the subject. At least, John had enough sense to keep his new found crazy to himself. Because of that, he should be able to make it in the real world just fine. Everyone had their own hand in a pocket of crazy. He didn't need a guardian angel anymore.

John picked up the beer to fill the silence, but between the condensation on the glass and wet ring around the bottom, his hand slipped. The beverage spilled across the table. He scrambled for the napkin dispenser, knocking over the peanuts and spilling a salt shaker in the process. Liam bent his head and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Who was he kidding? John was a mess. He'd kill himself given the chance. The trainer was probably once a marvelous fighter like he displayed at the festival, but after his _confusion_ , his coordination was shot. Even with therapy, his body would never be able to function like it used to. Accidents would become routine. His life as a martial artist was over, all because John could no longer run up a set of stairs without tripping over them.

And it was all Liam's fault.

After all, when he left John by himself after escaping the sheriff's office, he wasn't on his way to the medical tent. He was trying to get information from his underground contacts about the new threat posed by the Jewels. Then, there was the pokemon fight that could have ended with a single switch of a party pokemon, but Liam couldn't resist teasing the two grunts. And only after sweet talking the walking death trap Vermillion, did her prompt stir him back into action. Each of those decisions, one memory after another scrambled in John's brain. If he hadn't had a CureAll on him, that would have been the end of it.

Liam Valenis made a terrible friend.

The ace used his head as a catapult and threw his hand into the air as if to reach through the sea of guilt. Maybe one day someone would grab it and keep him from drowning. "Alright, boys," he yelled. "First round: what's it gonna be?!"

There was a whoop, several claps, and far too many suggestions for John to keep track of them all. In fact, it was hard to keep track of anything with so many new faces, slurred names, and obnoxious laughter. Luckily, Harvey provided the perfect distraction. Plates of food lined his arms as he appeared from the kitchen. He struggled to stay afloat in the sea of hands reaching up for his checkered baskets. Several locals came and went around the group. Some took their food and left knowing just how rowdy the students from the dojo could be. Others stuck around for the very same reason. They all eventually left, however, as the clock struck midnight. With a Valenis footing the bill, however, the students were just getting started. And that included the heir himself.

Liam found a seat next to John again, or at least, part of one by the way he leaned against the table. Someone must have given him a noogie because his hair slanted in less than sophisticated ways. The bubbling beverages had finally tickled the sobriety right out of him. "I gots question for yous," he slurred with a swipe of a point.

John sat back in his chair with half a soda. "Oh, really?" he chuckled.

"That p'kmon, in da woods . . . what's it like?"

At first, John didn't make the connection until he saw his gym badge still lying on the table. Somehow, Liam had gotten a hold of it and the last time John saw it, Celebi had it. He tensed lightly.

"Don't listen to him," someone yelled in the background. "Liam'll have you believin' fairy tales and ghost stories about pokemon that possess trainers or whatever. Boogiemen they are!"

"Rangers!" Liam corrected with a swivel of his head. He turned back to John with a flat hand against his face to block the ignorant from his words. "They's Rangers," he whispered again. He slapped a hand down on the table. "And ones day, I'm gonna meet'em, challenge'm to a duel, and beat'em!"

"Cuz us little folk ain't good enough for the challenge," another student chimed in.

"You haven't beaten me yet, _chump_ ," Liam yelled with a wave of his hand.

"I'll beat you right now!"

Liam swung around to address the challenge and nearly hit one of the other students. "Whoops, sorry, Roscoe," Liam yelled after the dodge. The ace was so twisted in his chair John thought he would fall out of it. Never in a thousand years did he think he'd be talking pokemon in an old rickety pub with Liam Valenis as if they were pals. Whether Liam believed in Celebi or not, he wasn't going to remember much about this night. Right now, spinda spun better circles than him. This might be John's one and only chance to tell the truth without being condemned.

"Alright," John said, "I'll tell you a little." Liam whipped around as fast as his delayed reflexes could handle. John leaned onto the table. "She was-

- _she_?" Liam interrupted. The importance of the entire conversation relied on the answer. John smiled a little harder.

"She," he reiterated, "was unlike any pokemon I've ever seen."

"Wha'd she look like?"

"Well . . ." With such childlike enthusiasm breaking down his every word, John had to make sure Celebi sounded as whimsical as possible. It wasn't hard considering she was the epitome of a pixie. John leaned in again and spread his fingers. "She wasn't just any pokemon. Picture a flower bud on the verge of blossoming," he began. "You'd miss it if you didn't know what to look for, but just below the surface is something so amazing that, once you see it, you'll never be able to forget it. She looked just like the forest, a young one, you know, how the colors run together? She has a little bit of everything, like sunlight streaming through the canopy. And her eyes were like the undergrowth. Soft, dark, framed in black-"

"Color, what color?!" Liam gasped. His eyes glittered as brightly as his smile.

"Purple, maybe blue. It was hard to tell. The color hadn't settled yet because she was just a hatchling. It was so odd. Being so young, she showed no fear of being alone, as if she had already lived a lifetime on the mountain. And when she flew, oh how her wings sang."

"Sang?"

John scooted closer. Liam pulled to the edge of his seat.

"Sang," John confirmed.

"Looks like we've got ourselves another poet," the student, Roscoe, exclaimed as he grabbed the back of John's chair. "Master Ruji would love an extra body to test his haikus on."

"More like torture," another student added as they came up behind Liam. "Now we've got a real pair of _artists_ in the dojo."

John leaned back in his chair as Roscoe walked around to Liam, both new arrivals now flanking the ace. They were out to exact revenge. "Come on drama queen," they exclaimed. "John's put up with you long enough."

"Leave me alone, I'm busy," Liam protested. He suddenly started unloading his pockets as if to excuse himself from the others. "I've got important dings ta talk about." Several gold coins clattered on the table, along with a deck of cards, some grass, a set of keys that didn't belong to a car, and a minimized pokeball. Roscoe and his fellow student grabbed Liam by the arms and lifted him to his feet.

"We've got a quartet that's down a man," they explained. "And you've got "musical" written all over that dumbass smile of yours. Come on, let's go."

"Ok, OK . . . I's do it," Liam finally relented with a wide swing of his cheek, "But only if it's 'bout p'kmon!"

"Yeah, yeah, we know."

In an instant, Liam was spirited away, leaving the items unguarded on the table. Someone bumped into it and jingled the objects. The pokeball rolled for the edge. John quickly grabbed it before it fell off the table and realized that the seam of the two halves was visible, indicating it wasn't new. Someone was inside. John shook his head. He scooped up the rest of the items before they landed in a beer mug or bathroom drain. Without any pockets, they needed to go somewhere that didn't involve grease or alcohol. John got up and dodged his way through the crowd to the bar. Harvey was preoccupied with the tables so he set the items in a nearby empty whiskey glass. The last from the storeroom as far as he could tell. Unwilling to leave the pokeball in a dirty glass and insult the occupant, John snapped the pokeball onto his belt. Another hearty cheer went up. Liam and the others picked up an impromptu tune at the jute box.

If John wouldn't have known any better, he would have thought himself back at home celebrating Commencement. The hearty food and drink, stupid dares, and drinking songs, were all things he and his friends did after an especially hard day on the mountain. They were all things that made this place a home, things that reminded John that this home, wasn't his. Despite their similarities, everything wasn't the same. The food was good but it didn't have the same taste. He didn't get all of the jokes because he wasn't inside the group and the lyrics to the songs were different enough that John couldn't keep up.

It was time for a little fresh air.

John easily made his way out of the pub without being noticed as another round circled the bar. He often hung around until the end at times like these to help those who couldn't help themselves get home, but today, he stepped out the back door by himself. A single dim yellowish light illuminated the back of the building. John stepped away from it into the cooler starlight and walked around towards the front of the pub. The buildings weren't close together, making the city more of a village than a town. John stopped to take a look at it. The general store was still there. So were a few stores he remembered. Here, darkness hid the changes of time. It was the only thing powerful enough that could. John looked up at the sky. The stars were the same. At least they still watched over him. John wondered if they recognized him in this era.

There had to be a way back to his own time. No matter how slim and unlikely the chances. He had to try, at least once. And even if he couldn't find a way back, he could still live his life out on the mountain. But not this one . . . and not the ones in Boulder, not without risking the future as he knew it. But then again, what if his presence actually lead to the future that he knew? Maybe he lived his entire life in the past all the way to the point of his departure and changed his name? Did he ever talk to his future self as a kid?

John looked down and furiously rubbed his hands through his hair. Time travel was too confusing for his simple brain. Surely, none of the other students had a Commencement quite as literal as his. John dropped his hands with a sigh. Celebi, the feather, and the ruins, John couldn't help but believe that Aria had a hand in all of this, someway, somehow. He looked up at the stars again. "Aria, what sort of adventure have you sent me on now?" he asked.

It wasn't the only question asked of the night.

"Is this even the right place?" someone barked nearby.

"Of course it is," a second replied with just as much snap.

"Where are all the people?"

"It's one in the _fucking_ morning. What do you think they're doing?"

John glanced down and around until he found two people across the way outside of the old, or rather, present day, timber mill. They stood at the hood of a van at the far edge of a street light, neither pleased with this place or their partner. Tourists. No matter what era, they always had the same problem: getting lost. It happened far too often on this side of the region.

"Let's go inside," they began again.

"Are you out of your mind? Can't you hear that madhouse from here?"

John didn't blame their hesitation. He looked at the front door of McAlister's. Muffled shouts and cheers raged within. To an outsider, they probably envisioned fist fights and broken chairs. They weren't that far from the truth. John stuck his hands in his pockets and walked their way. It wasn't long before he came upon them with his long stride. "You guys need some help?" he asked. Now that he was closer, John noticed that both men were dressed in black by choice not from the night. One was distinctly shorter than the other.

"Did we ask for any help?" the short one replied as he swung around with a curl of his lip that wasn't from the scar digging into it. "Why don't you mind your own-," the sneer quickly dropped when it landed on John's face. In fact, it even pulled into a smile. The shorter fellow quickly slapped his partner. He also turned around. The difference between them were of cartoon proportions. Like a squirrel standing next to a moose.

"Well, well, well, fancy meeting _you_ here," Rocky exclaimed.

John stole a glance at the hood of the car beyond the pair. There were gloves, zip ties, a map, and a bundle of something he couldn't make out. He pinched his eyes lightly. "I'm sorry," John began, "but do we know each other?"

Rocky touched his chest with the flat of his hand. "I'm insulted. And after all we've been through. We warned you. Or don't you remember?" He glanced at Bullwinkle. "What was it you called us?" Rocky pulled his jacket back and revealed a fully equipped pokebelt. John suddenly realized the mistake he had made.

"That's right," Rocky said as he tapped a minimized pokeball against his cheek. He stopped and curled out a grin as wicked as his intentions. "We're the _bad guys_."


	20. Hell Raiser: 4

**Hell Raiser: 4**

Several materializations happened all at once. John couldn't count how many, not when the sudden explosion of light blinded him. He covered his face with his hands, and as fast as the light appeared, a _smokescreen_ took its place. Foul smelling clouds of black smoke pooled in the street, engulfing John in an instant. Unable to see or breathe, he shut his eyes tightly against the burning haze and went for his pokebelt. John's fingers barely grazed a pokeball before something struck him from behind, jarring his shoulder and forcing his hand away. He stumbled forward, right into another shrieking _tackle_.

Judging from the dull _thump_ that hit his chest and subsequent chittering screech, the projectile was a zubat. Two to be exact. John ran through enough nesting grounds at night on the mountain to recognize the sensation. It pushed him back into balance and he quickly yanked a pokeball off of his belt. Marco's materialization didn't make it past the smoke, only his teal feathers as he rocketed out of the cloud.

"Clear the smoke!" John yelled. He sharply leaned backwards as a clicking zubat flew for his head, its sonar targeting him easier than a _keen eye_. The second bat landed on his shoulder in a _bite_. With a mouthful of hood, it didn't reach skin. The flapping wings however, were more of a nuisance. John turned his face away from the leathery mayhem before he tore the pokemon from his shoulder. The smoke suddenly billowed wildly. Several _gusts_ of air rushed over the trainer. He held his ground as the currents melded into a single flow that pushed the _smokescreen_ further down the street, revealing John once more to the night.

He coughed, tears streaming down his cheeks, and looked up. A koffing floated in front of Rocky and Bullwinkle. It honked with a puffing spin of its knobby body. They were grunts. It should have been obvious by their matching black outfits, creepy van, and choice of pokemon. John should have known better than to approach. Aria told him countless stories about those specific menaces to society. He was just trying not to be judgmental, but then again, all stereotypes came from somewhere. Couldn't they have at least tried to be more original?

Their strategy was the same as every other classic low life: Two against one. John wasn't used to the tactic. He pulled up his torn jacket and put a hand to his pokebelt again but hesitated. Charles was in no shape to fight. Energy transfer didn't magically heal pokemon when they were withdrawn. It merely confined them in the state they were in. The linoone could barely stand let alone focus in his drunken stupor. John's hand shifted to Lopo's friend ball. This time, he didn't just hesitate. He stopped. Marco suddenly split between the two groups. He soared by in a screech that was trailed by two more. The two enemy zubat were hot on his heels, cutting the pidgeotto's speed and strength advantage with numbers. One tugged and bit at Marco's tail feathers, a disadvantage in battle John was painfully aware of, while the other harassed from the front. The larger bird pokemon couldn't escape without losing his breeding capabilities, and that was something Marco would never give up willingly.

John whistled. A twang of whimsy chirped within it. Marco banked towards him, mimicking the call with his own. The three pokemon zipped by again. John activated a withdrawal, pulling Marco out of the enemy's pincer attack when they flew by. With nothing in between, the two bats collided. John strapped the ball back onto his belt and looked down from the sky. Koffing still floated in front of him but there was only one grunt behind him instead of two. Where was the other?

John staggered as a heavy hand grabbed him by the back of the collar, pushing him forward before yanking him back again. Luckily, the zipper was undone. The trainer slipped right out of the sleeves, leaving Bullwinkle with nothing but a jacket too small for his size in his hand. John spun around to face him but the back step landed him into the hands of a geodude floating close to the ground. The rock pokemon grabbed both ankles and yanked them out from underneath the trainer with the finesse of a magician's table cloth. He fell face first into the ground. The road wasn't nearly as comfortable as a training mat.

John winced, the fall knocking the wind right out of him. Now, he remembered, or rather, his body, remembered these goons. They were the same ones at the festival that filled him with a strong sense of disappointment. Other than that, he felt nothing but throbbing in his chest. Sweat broke out across his forehead. Cork City was the best rehab clinic in the world but what John wouldn't give for some clinical strength pain medication right now. His body really needed a break, and not the kind that the grunts intended. A pair of feet came up beside him.

"Quick," Rocky yelled with a toss of a gas mask across the way.

Bullwinkle caught it and pulled it over his face as Koffing blew a second _smokescreen_ out of various orifices. Another hot cloud of smoke descended over John. It burned his eyes to tears within seconds, aggravating his cough into a gasp. A foot stepped on the trainer's back. Judging from its weight, it belonged to Bullwinkle. So was the hand that grabbed John's wrists and yanked them behind his back. Instinct warned John that this had happened before, once in a place that smelled like wood and gunpowder, and the second on a hospital floor stained with bleach and blood. Cold hard fear surged through John's tired muscles, energizing them in one last grasp at victory. And John grasped as hard as he could.

With both hands behind his back, he grabbed the boot on top of him. John rolled, carrying his burden with him. To avoid a near split, Bullwinkle rolled to the ground. John popped up as if he had just broken through the surface of the sea, but instead of fresh air, he swallowed a mouthful of fabric as Rocky threw a black bag over his head. Bullwinkle was up and snagged the trainer's wrists again. A zip tie joined them together. Shit. These guys weren't just out to get him. They were out to _get_ him. He was being kidnapped!

Another rush of adrenaline spurred John into action. He felt the presence of someone in front of him. If he didn't break free now, there would be no hope later. Not for a lost traveler like him. Without hands or head to help, John relied on his feet. He jumped backwards into Rocky, used him as a wall, and kicked as hard as he could. Both feet struck home. Not in Bullwinkle's chest, but Geodude's head. The shockwave ran all the way up the trainer's legs. John landed, his legs gave out, and he fell. Rocky went with him and cushioned the fall. John couldn't tell the difference between ground and grunt, only that he might just have paralyzed himself jump-kicking a rock. The zip tie that suddenly bound both ankles reassured him otherwise. At least, he still had feeling in his legs.

With Rocky on one end and Bullwinkle on the other, they picked John up and hobbled over to what had to be the van as fast as they could. The door scratched open and they tossed him inside. Two door slams later and the engine roared to life. Gravel spit underneath the wheels and the van raced out of the city.

And here he was again in darkness, as usual. At least this time around, he was conscious. Although, John would have preferred not to be. He grimaced under the black hood and not just from his injuries. The restraints were tight enough to cut off all circulation. He could have tried counting the seconds, listening for landmarks, or tracking the position of the sun, but it wouldn't do him any good. He wouldn't understand any of it anyway. He was no spy. John sat up against his better judgement.

"Move and I'll kill you!" Rocky shouted. He must have been in the front seat because there was no kick to enforce the point. John didn't need a threat to obey anyway. Old wounds had resurfaced and new ones were starting to throb. There wasn't any room to panic between the sore ribs, aching legs, and seemingly consistent lack of oxygen. Besides, these grunts wanted him alive and in one piece. Showing out now would only waste what little energy he had left. Take stock. Take control of what he could, and that meant his own body. John flexed his feet. They hurt like hell but he accomplished the motion. Nothing broken but his ankle was starting to swell. He could tell by the tightening bandages.

John risked greater movement, however, in an attempt to feel his pokebelt. His hands rubbed against the back of it. Good. It was still on. But he couldn't tell if everyone was in proper place. John wasn't sure he could withstand losing another pokemon after leaving Lularoo behind in the past, or was it the future? The thought made him sick. It was either that, or the greasy bar food jostling in his stomach from the van's mad dash down the road. A lead foot, loose steering wheel, and rusty breaks made for a less than comforting ride. But it's not like that mattered. His body had gone through enough in the past 48 hours to last a year of rolling on the mats. Rest was what it needed, even if it came from a kidnapping.

They drove without music or talking. The grunts may have been brutes but they weren't stupid enough to underestimate their cargo and chatter mindlessly. John didn't intend to eavesdrop anyway. The world had swept him away the moment he jumped off of a cliff back in Boulder. There was nothing left to do but ride the tide of the waters he had landed in, life lesson#67. John smiled to himself at the thought. It was a lengthy drive from Cork City to anywhere meaningful, and from there, they were probably going to go further. He was on borrowed time already. Why waste it in fear?

The conditions were perfect for meditation. Darkness, silence, white background noise, and a distinct purpose to stay still in an eddy of chaos, John couldn't have asked for better conditions. Sensei would scold him for his posture but he did the best with what he had, slowly positioning himself to sit on his legs with his hands centered at the eve of his back. Breathe in the madness. Release the pressure. Build a foundation in the trembling world to keep yourself still. In. Out. John fell into the darkness quickly. Slowly, one by one, stars appeared within the void. Was it an illusion or imagination? They formed constellations, the same ones he saw above Cork City and Boulder, and then ones he didn't recognize. For some reason they came together like a projection, settling slowly around him. Dark, deep colors seeped in between, and before John could reach out and touch them, a heavy sway of his body pushed them into darkness once more.

John didn't know how long they drove, only that the van suddenly came to a stop. He awoke from meditation. His consciousness resisted as if waking from a heavy REM sleep. Voices talked outside of the van. They sounded like Rocky and Bullwinkle but John didn't remember hearing the doors shut. He didn't remember much of anything. Time had passed so quickly. Just how far had he gone into meditation? However deep, it was the hardest and longest he had ever journeyed. No wonder a quiet peaceful mountain dojo, perfectly in balance with the world, kept him awake and unfocused during practice. There was no madness to absorb. Here, there was more than enough to reflect upon. He should get kidnapped more often.

The conversation outside of the van became clearer. John remained still as the door to his compartment suddenly slid open. Someone scoffed. At least they didn't laugh. "Get him out," they ordered. Despite the ferocity of the command, nothing happened. Curiosity relaxed John out of his meditation posture. Only then did the van bounce with the entrance of two bodies. They hoisted John out of the vehicle, stood him up, and cut the ties around his ankles. Surprisingly, he stood without strain on his ankles or knees. No wonder Marcus praised the powers of meditation. They healed just as powerfully as Healer Whey's bandages. Not even his heart fluttered as the crackle of a stun gun snapped next to him in a show of intimidation. "Try anything funny and you'll get a belly full of sparks," Rocky threatened. "The Red Dragon Force _always_ delivers. Dead or alive."

Red Dragon Force? Never heard of them. Then again, criminal cults and gangs tended to change frequently throughout the decades. Too bad their bad manners stayed the same. "Walk," Bullwinkle demanded with a hard clasp of John's arm. The trainer obeyed. Still blind and bound by the hands, he was at the mercy of his captors, but it felt good to stretch his legs. They walked for quite some time, down several stairs, and around a maze of paths John couldn't keep track off. Eventually, the trainer's handlers roughly sat him down in a chair and ripped off the black hood.

John winked open an eye despite the dim colored lights around him. Cigar smoke milled about the air. Sweet and a little less than legal, John resisted a sneeze. He sat in a foldable metal chair in the center of a room. Although, it was less of a room and more like a lounge. A handful of people smoked long cigarettes and sipped drinks on day beds and couches along the sides. There was quite some distance between them to establish a viewing line like a barrier at a zoo. They looked at him with high chins, dark makeup, and even higher fashion based in red, gold, and black. John sat facing a large desk at the back of the room. An even larger man sat behind it.

Silver and gold ringed all five fingers on each hand. The centermost finger on his dominant hand was decked with a ruby so large that it was a miracle he could smoke the fat stogie between his fingers. Two people stood beside his desk. One male. One female. Both clad in an elegance achieved by depravity and dirty money. Fraternal twins, they both had stark white hair tipped in metallic gold paint. The woman's nearly as long as her skin tight blood red dress, and the man's, short and slanted like his gaze. Black eyeliner protected their eyes from anything light and the reddish undertones of their skin matched the decorum of the room. Outlandish jewelry, dark smoky offices, and kidnapping a regular form of business, this was a crime syndicate's lair if John ever saw one. And he sat in the middle of it.

Metal flashed as the boss pointed his cigar at John. "Who the fuck is this?" he shouted.

John thought the same thing. Rocky stood to his left. Bullwinkle to the right. Both met one another's dumbfounded gaze over John's head. "You asked for Hell Raiser, so we brought you Hell Raiser," Rocky explained.

"You think _this_ twerp is the two time champion of the Ring?" the man boomed. "Just look at him. Is there even a part of him that's not broken?"

"Trust me, looks are deceiving," Bullwinkle added with a laser like glare. John deflected it with a sneeze of cigar smoke.

" _Looks_? Do you even know what Hell Raiser looks like? Take a God damn picture next time! _This_ might be him: if he lost a hundred pounds, lived in a cave for a year, and got a face lift!"

John could have told them that. Whoever this Hell Raiser was. Rocky and Bullwinkle stiffened in their mistake. Their boasting smiles quickly faded to the eves of a beggar's hope. "B-but- he was there, fighting right alongside Liam Valenis! He's a Cork City trainer, and he even had-

-enough! Would somebody please find Hedgecoach so I can express my severe disappointment in his choice of henchman?" the man at the desk shouted.

"Red Dragon Force, please. More like Red Dragon failure," a man along the wall muttered under his breath.

"Somebody get these idiots out of my sight," the boss sighed with a draw of his cigar. The male twin leaning against the side of the desk pulled out a pokeball. His twin sitting on the opposite edge did the same from within her bodice. They had to be lieutenants. One didn't sit on the boss' desk for the sake of being a paperweight. They each released a pokemon. A roselia for the male and a bellossom for the female. Both just as beautiful, and deadly, as their trainers. The grunts flinched back in a sweat but refused to let the mistake be the last of them.

"It wasn't our fault, Boss Ruby!" they pleaded. "We swore it was him! Everything about him was the same!"

"Everything except he's the wrong person!" the mutterer at the wall scoffed again. He stepped out of the shadows with a machoke on either side. The twins shared a very subtle glance and put their pokeballs away. Familiar to the escort, Rocky and Bullwinkle quickly retreated from the room. The machoke followed, and with a nod from the big man behind the desk, they closed the doors behind them. The heavy _bang_ silenced the room but not nearly as much as the presence sitting in the middle of it. John turned his cheek to the side. Both of the grunts were gone. His only link to what was quickly starting to feel like a past life, vanished in an instant. If it wasn't for the calming meditative car ride, he might have been worried. But having people like that in his life wasn't good for him anyway.

John turned again. Despite not being bound to the chair itself, moving hardly seemed appropriate. He looked at the man behind the desk again. Boss Ruby took another draw of his cigar and tapped the ashes on a gold plate lined with platinum. Roselia quietly jumped onto the male twin's shoulder. Bellossom planted herself in the female's lap. Both coldly glanced at the man who had interrupted their summoning with one of his own, Third lieutenant Carmine. He walked into the light and voiced the silent question swirling about the room.

"So, what the hell are we gonna do now, boss?" he asked with a cross of his arms over his chest. "There's no way _that_ string bean is gonna last in the Ring and replace Hell Raiser. I don't think he could stand let alone raise his fists. He's a one punch knockout for sure."

John glanced around the rest of the room. Upturned lips and sideways sneers agreed with the third lieutenant. Whoever John was supposed to be, and wasn't, just might have cost him his life. Boss Ruby smashed his cigar in the ash tray with a grunt. "Tell me something I don't know," he growled. Carmine stiffened upon sight of those flaring cinders. As if expecting him to fail, Boss Ruby diverted the question to someone he knew could answer to satisfaction. "Quill, Jesse?" he proposed.

Quill, the male twin, answered first. "Why not repurpose?" he suggested. "Recover at least something from this loss." "He's a trainer," Jesse, his sister, replied with a stroke of a bangled hand across her bellossom. "Put him in the Cage."

That didn't sound good.

In another attempt to place himself closer to the desk, Third Lieutenant Carmine, sharply waved another party from the wall. It was a grunt, a class above the usual thuggery judging from his sleek black suit. No sweater and berets in this lounge. He ran up to John, removed the trainer's pokebelt in a well-rehearsed snap and pull, and gave it to Carmine, who in turn, walked across the room towards the desk. John jumped in the chair with a "Hey!"

A _pin missile_ suddenly shot from Roselia's hands. They lined John's shoulders better than a circus knife act. Frozen in his chair, the trainer turned his eye to the pins. Each pierced a hole in the metal beside him. Some, shredding the outer layer of his bandages. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.

"Show a little respect," Quill threatened. "You are in the presence of a Royal Jewel."

John's eyes narrowed. Royal? He didn't see a crown or scepter. The only thing he saw was Carmine's hands all over his pokebelt. The secondhand lieutenant made sure to glance at the nearest twin as he presented it to the boss. Both ignored him. Ruby took what was offered and strung the belt between his meaty hands. His knuckles were almost as big as the minimized balls. John was insulted for his pokemon.

"Have we scanned them yet?" Ruby huffed through his cigar.

"Those dolts did get at least one thing right," Carmine continued.

While the third lieutenant was busy gloating, Quill already had a tablet in hand. He scrolled through the items. "Signatures show a linoone," he informed. "Then there's an empty slot, empty ball, pidgeotto, second pidgeotto-

-more like pathetic," Ruby exclaimed with a toss of the belt across the desk. If John had hackles, they would have come to a point sharper than the pins beside him. Roselia frowned at him.

"Show some respect!" John yelled. "Those are living creatures!"

This time, both Quill and his pokemon stood up from the desk. A single sideways glance from his sister stopped them in place. The lieutenant leaned against the desk again. John didn't realize his heart was racing until it started pounding in his ears. It only made his blood run hotter. He looked at his belt and the two nest balls nestled next to one another. "Pidgeotto, pidgeotto," is what they said. A second bird pokemon? Athena? Shit, was that who Liam had in his pocket at the bar? What the hell was he thinking leaving her on the table like that? Boss Ruby rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh.

"With that party line up, I'll be the laughing stock of the entire Cage House," he exclaimed.

Carmine opened his mouth. This time, Jesse cut him off. "Then don't claim ownership," she shrugged. "Use him as fodder for a real B.A. Sapphire already arranged for us to have a slot."

"Really? You want me to use him in a pokemon match?" Ruby complained. "Just look at the kid. He makes me want to cry. How will his pokemon be any better?"

"I'll give you something to cry about," John interjected, now desperate to get any kind of attention. If he couldn't prove himself valuable, if only as a gruesome form of entertainment, he'd truly disappear. For good. "One release and you'll see what this _kid_ is capable of."

The twins adjusted their pokemon and walked around to stand at the front of the desk. They looked at John as if looking at a piece of art and judging its worth. They found little but enough.

"What about our B.A., Mammoth?" Quill proposed. "He's going for Champion," Jesse added, the two switching in and out of conversation as easily if they read one another's minds. "An easy win will raise his rates." "We haven't had a good blow out in a while." "And it'll save our more valuable aces."

John worked his jaw. He needed more than a decision based on a whim. He needed to make an impression. Clearly, threats weren't going to cut it. His bluffs were as hollow as his motives behind them. Even they could tell that. Violence wasn't his strong suit. Words were. And so far, the only words that meant anything were the ones that disrespected the boss. John pushed against his chair. It tipped backwards. The back hit the floor but John didn't stop moving. He rolled over his shoulder, up onto his feet, and a Machoke grabbed him by the throat. The pokemon carried him across the room and slammed him into the wall. With his hands behind his back, John couldn't even grab a wrist. Carmine put a pokeball away, stealing the limelight once more. It didn't last long. The room went silent because of John's interruption. Finally, some attention. Now, he just needed to keep the spotlight before his vision went black.

John twisted out a smile and looked straight at the man behind the desk on the other side of the room. He nodded at the ruby glimmering with an overcompensating sparkle on the boss' gold studded hand. "I like your ring, Boss man," John said. How he managed to squeak out words from underneath Machoke's grip silenced even Carmine's muttering. "I got one of those out of a gumball machine once. What drugstore did you get yours at?"

A pin dropped. It rattled almost as hard as the desk when Boss Ruby slammed both hands on top of it, knocking over several items. He stood up from his red leather chair. No one else moved as he did so. Even the twins dared only a sideways glance. Ruby clenched his white chicklet teeth as hard as his fists.

"Mammoth?" he asked again. Quill nodded but Ruby wasn't looking at him, only at a future match where his favorite color was splashed all over the battlefield. "Get with Sapphire. Have'm put together." He gnashed his teeth into a smile. "And dump the bodies after."

Machoke squeezed John's throat a little tighter. It silenced his voice but the smile remained. Life lesson #53: don't just accept your fate. Run for it. Horns first.


	21. Hell Raiser: 5

**Hell Raiser: 5**

Dojo Rule #1: Never challenge Marcus Hailbringer to a drinking contest.

Why? Because you will always, _always_ , lose. Liam slumped into the side of one of the veranda posts. The rock garden in front of him did little to pacify the pounding in his head. He was lucky to have made it this far on his own and even luckier to have changed into a fresh set of warm ups before venturing out of his room. Drinking songs would be the death of him. Either that, or the sunlight happily blinding him through the archways. Liam flattened a hand above his eyes with a painful glance at the sky. What time was it? Noon? More like half past a hangover from hell.

"Still alive?" someone grumbled from across the sand.

"Unfortunately," Liam yawned. He stood away from the post, only to lean on the next one down the line. Marcus sat in a pose of mediation on top of the largest boulder in the garden. Shirtless, as usual. At least, he was still wearing pants. The same couldn't be said regarding a poorly played poker game last night. The fighter winked open an eye.

"You haven't seen John this morning, have you?" Liam asked in a matching squint.

Marcus closed his eye again. The bamboo water pipe clacked against the stone in the fountain. "Hard to see anybody with your eyes closed," the fighter answered. Now, he wanted to play student. Liam sighed, unable to raise his head as much as his eyelids. He wasn't in the mood.

"Alright then, did you _hear_ anybody go by?" Liam revised. Try as Marcus may, Liam knew there was no depth to that meditation. The fighter drank three gallons more than him last night. A leaf landing in the fountain probably sounded like an explosion, let alone the steps of a six foot tall man passing by. Even B.B., the teddiursa, sitting in a mirroring pose of mediation next to Marcus on a much smaller rock understood that. The little bear pokemon looked up at the ace then his trainer. Marcus didn't give them as much as a flutter of an eyelash. Liam narrowed his eyes, closed them with a pivot of his heel, and lifted his chin.

"Oh well, I'll just move along then," he said. "Wouldn't want to interrupt a master at his work. Maybe John went into the woods to train. I guess I'll just have to find him. Hopefully, I won't get stung by a weedle or trip over a venonat, get _stunned_ , and die from anaphylactic shock." Liam walked away.

"Haven't seen him since last night," Marcus suddenly announced.

Liam stopped with a slightly nefarious smirk. He quickly tucked it into his pocket for a rainy day and turned back around. "Me either, and I've checked the whole compound. Athena's missing too."

"Think he took her?"

"Not sure. I'm also missing my keys and some loose change. They might be in the same spot," Liam tilted his head accusingly. "Know where they might be?"

Marcus adjusted his shoulders. "If you're implying that I caught that wannabe thieving, left him in a ditch somewhere, and buried the body, than the answer is _no_." He winked open an eye. "But I wish I could have."

Liam crossed his arms over his chest. The smirk returned. "If I had to take a guess, I'd say you didn't like him very much." Which was quite the opposite in Liam's case. Then again, Marcus disapproved of a lot of the things Liam liked. It's what's kept him alive for so long.

"Of course, I don't," Marcus snarled, the mere thought of John enough to break him out of concentration. The fighter stood up and hopped over onto the veranda via more boulders. The floor shook when he landed. "The kid's a fraud."

"A fraud that managed to last five seconds against you instead of three," Liam added with a nod of correction.

"And a thief," Marcus fired back.

"Let's not bring up the ease to which we lose pokeballs," Liam advised. Marcus opened his mouth but quickly shut it again. Liam turned and walked away once more. Marcus jumped into step behind him. "And what do you care if he's missing?" the fighter quickly added in regards to the dojo's newest addition. "A trainer weak enough to bail out in the middle of the night ain't worth ur time. Why are you so adamant about keeping him around anyway? Don't you get tired of all his damn talking?"

"Sounds to me like you're a little jealous," Liam mused.

Marcus clenched his teeth in another retort but quickly remembered the pokemon he left behind. B.B., the teddiursa struggled to get down from his rock without touching the sand. "Jealous?" Marcus exclaimed a little too loudly while he jerked back to retrieve the bear before Liam noticed. "Are you still drunk from last night?" Marcus extended a hand, grabbed the outstretched paw, and swung the little bear onto his shoulder. He quickly relaxed as if B.B. had been there the whole time.

Liam stopped at the corner of the porch. He reached up and tapped one of the dark paper lanterns above him. "Maybe just a little," he whispered.

He wished.

As a celebrity ace, Liam had an uncanny recovery ability when it came to champagne parties and whiskey weekends. But there was one thing he couldn't hide . . . his eyes. "Spill it," Marcus demanded as he swiped his jacket from the floor and put it on. B.B. used an ear for a hold and stepped over the collar as his trainer tugged it into place. "What he do to you?" Marcus continued. Being friends for at least five years now, he could always tell when something was amiss. He stood beside Liam at the corner of the house. The ace refused to look at him, and when they inevitably made eye contact, Marcus dropped his arms. "Aww, shit," he cursed. "What did _you_ do to him?"

"Nothing, really," Liam quickly replied with a _fury swipe_ to the back of his head. He then pushed his hands upwards through his hair as if to hold up a halo. He grimaced. "Not . . . purposefully."

"Christ." Marcus muttered several more unholy oaths as he stormed off of the veranda.

"Hey, where are you going?" Liam called after him.

"To find that bandaged idiot and tell him exactly what kind of shit you've dragged him into!"

Liam grabbed his halo and jumped off of the porch after him. "I thought you hated him!" Liam exclaimed. He always knew the fighter would join his cause and help locate John, one way or another, but this turn of emotion was surprising.

"I used to hate him," Marcus clarified, "But now I just pity him."

"If it makes you feel any better, it didn't go nearly as bad at the festival as it could have," Liam reassured. "Frankly, it might have been worse _had_ you decided to come with me. Good thing you're a homebody!" Marcus grunted an agreement. Going anywhere that wasn't the dojo, the bar, or a tournament often led to irritation, frustration, and a general sense of disappointment. Liam smiled in a fantasy of what "could have been" had the real Hell Raiser been in Boulder that night.

"Yeah," Liam chuckled to himself. "Those two grunts would've fallen faster than their captain!"

Marcus suddenly stopped. Liam bounced into him better than a squeaky toy. B.B. grabbed an ear as Marcus whirled upon the ace.

"Grunts?" he howled through clenched teeth. "I thought you said they were just a couple of trainers too big for their britches?"

"Well, _technically_ -"

Marcus grabbed Liam by the shirt. "They were sent by the Ring, weren't they?"

Liam shrugged and glanced away.

"The Royal Jewels?!" Marcus deduced. "Why the hell didn't you tell me!?"

Liam looked at him with a sharp flash of his eye. " _You_ were the one who said you were finished and needed _time to reflect_ ," he defensively quoted.

"They could've freakin' killed him!"

"But they didn't. And I thought John was just a fraud to you? Where's this sudden concern coming from? You nearly killed him yourself yesterday morning!"

Marcus growled and pushed Liam away. His jaw worked as hard as his thoughts. He paced. There was nothing either of them could say. They agreed, of their own free will, to fight in the Ring: underground fights hosted by the syndicate for martial artists of various caliber and technique who found belts and rules too constricting. Marcus looked at the bandages wrapped around his knuckles.

He was no different.

Controlled matches in the dojo, dominating practice, and winning time and time again with no hope of defeat. He needed more. He needed a challenge that allowed for his full unbridled potential. A strength Marcus quickly came to realize, needed to be contained, and not by the pockets of the Royal Jewels, deep as they may be. These bandages. They weren't to protect his fists. They were to keep the blood off of his hands. Marcus couldn't stand the sight of it on his skin after nearly beating a man to death in his latest fight as "Hell Raiser". His "passion" almost murdered a man. It was the best fight the crowd had ever seen and it was the worst night of Marcus' life. Now, it was chasing him for a rematch.

"You told me you took care of it," Marcus accused, before he glanced to the side and lowered his voice. "We were finished. Out!"

"It looks like you were just too good to let go," Liam chuckled. It sounded like a cry.

Marcus clenched his fists. He would have swung but he knew Liam wouldn't have dodged. Not this time, because Liam knew he deserved it. "You went too far this time," Marcus said.

"As did you!" Liam blamed just as fiercely. "And here we are, trying to close the distance between several bad decisions." The ace suddenly very tired of this conversation and this life. Marcus understood the depth of that fatigue. He wanted to say something, but didn't know what, so he looked at B.B as a distraction. A few quiet seconds passed.

"So how'd John get involved?" Marcus diverted, softening his growl to a low mumble.

"They were trying to get their prize pony pokemon back in the game," Liam replied. His smile flickered back to life. "They mistook him for you by the drunken stupor and fighting technique. He uses the same style as you. You saw that, right? Just . . . not as aggressively."

"What!?" Marcus raged, his fists now shaking. B.B. stood up on his feet and bared his claws on one paw in response. "That bastard pretended to be me? The one and only Hell Raiser?" Only the first part of the conversation making it through the fighter's thick head.

"Cool your flames hot pants, John wasn't exactly himself. It wasn't his fault. He was under the influence."

"From a pokemon or you?"

"Let's not dredge up the details."

Marcus loosed his grip and surged past Liam. The ace gingerly hopped out of the way. "Where are you going now?" he asked.

"To find that cripple and show you just how _alike_ we are. What kind of idiot mistakes _that_ idiot for me?"

Having searched the compound, Liam knew John wasn't in his room but when Marcus was on a rampage, he wasn't keen on listening . . . or thinking. Marcus made his way straight for the medical suite John was staying at. He swiped open the door so hard that it cracked in the frame. Liam winced but it didn't stop him from peeking around the fighter's shoulder. There was a cupboard, one folded futon, but no John. If one wasn't familiar with the distinct soft wrinkle of the blanket, placement of the head pillow, and slightly displaced mat, no one would have known that the room was being used.

Marcus huffed again and moved out of the door on his way to the next room. With no luck in the dojo, medical bay, and training grounds, he was now on a personal vendetta to find the trainer even if he had to start pulling apart the veranda plank by plank. Liam quickly took the fighter's place and walked into the room. It was no bigger than a broom closet. At full stretch, John would hardly fit in here at all. A small bag lay against the front wall. Adorned in mud, worn fabric, frayed straps, and plastic buttons, it was unmistakably a clue to John's whereabouts. The trainer wouldn't leave without it.

But then again, it _was_ completely and utterly trashed.

Liam sighed and sat next to the bag as if it would bring him closer to solving the mystery. It worked the last time at the hospital. Someone in the building over suddenly shouted in annoyance. Marcus must be making good time. Liam leaned his head against the wall. With nothing in the room remotely interesting to the eye, he looked at the bag again. Every pocket had been left unzipped in some fashion or another. The contents inside completely open to the wandering eye. Cute. John was so trustworthy. Liam picked up his head for a better look. As long as he didn't touch anything, he could snoop guilt free.

There were no pokeballs like last time but John's wallet was inside. Liam shifted and his toe bumped against the bottom of the bag. He would have thought nothing of it except that it knocked with the tap of wood. Every student in the dojo memorized what it felt like to stub a toe on the veranda. But this was different. Plastic clacked, faux finish squeaked, but wood: true grained, nature made, custom carved wood, had a ring to it that demanded admiration of its craftsmanship, especially by someone who appreciated the luxury. Liam wasn't about to insult John by ignoring it. He pulled open the bag and looked inside. A wooden box lay at the bottom of it. He hadn't noticed it before due to the pokeballs, but now that they were gone, it was clear as day. And clearly out of place. He reached inside and carefully pulled it out.

All in the hopes of finding another clue to John's whereabouts, of course.

Liam's heart fluttered at the sight of it. Carved into that box was a language that had not been spoken in the living world for centuries. Detail after detail alluded to stories that would make historians scream in discovery. Liam quickly set the box in his lap and pulled his hands away. To transfer oil from his fingers and onto the grain would have been to splash cooking grease upon a 13,000 year old illuminated manuscript. But even manuscripts were meant to be viewed. Using a delicacy that brain surgeons would approve of, Liam opened the lid. Not a squeak from the hinges or wisp of dust came from within. There was only a dark blue cloth more royal than the Valenis family name. Or so it seemed. Fold after glossy fold alluded to something underneath the fabric.

Liam had to find out what. After all, it may be a clue to finding John, or more likely, why the hell John refused to talk about himself (aside from the fact that he was crazy). Was this the reason why Sheriff Cewalski arrested John the other night? Did the trainer steal it from someone else? No matter the question, an answer lay inside. Liam took the cloth by the end and lifted it away. Every part of him froze. Not a beat or blink passed between the seconds. Liam closed the box. He glanced up in a laugh, cut it short with the realization that he wasn't dreaming, and opened it again.

Liam picked up the speckled silver and blue feather by the quill and held it up to the light. Never in all of his spoiled enriched life had he ever come across a _Silver Wing_. Collectors talked about them. Hearsay, mostly. Nothing valid, nothing to ever indicate there was one still in existence, yet here Liam held one in his hand. Sure, he couldn't be 100% sure it was the real thing but every collector vibe in his body hummed with discovery. No wonder John wanted to keep everything to himself. He was carrying around a very, _very,_ valuable relic. One Liam had been searching for, for years. If this feather was real . . . Liam laughed. If this was real then John might only be half as crazy as everyone thought he was.

"Picking up new habits?"

Liam was so amazed by the discovery that he didn't flinch when he realized Master Ruji was standing in the doorway next to him.

"I tolerate many things," Master Ruji solemnly continued, "but snooping is not one of them. Ninjutsu and darkness are this gym's type."

Perseus, the medicham, jumped off of Ruji's shoulder and landed inside the room. Liam held up the feather between them. "Do you have any idea what this is?!" he asked.

"I know that it's not yours and I would advise putting it exactly where you found it," Master Ruji answered.

"This is a Silver Wing. _A Silver Wing_. The only intact sample that I know of, and I know a lot."

"Too much for your own good."

"Do you know what this means?! It's a breakthrough, a miracle, it's a _legendary_ find!"

"I know that if you make one step out of this room with that box, your dream of earning a Cork City Gym Badge will be vanquished as well as your capacity to move."

It was a threat sharp enough to cut through Liam's exploding fantasies. The ace looked up with a curious and even innocent lift of his brow. "You think I want to steal it?" Liam asked. Master Ruji didn't answer. Perseus didn't move. Liam scoffed out a laugh, quickly tucked the feather into the box, and back into the bag. "I don't want the feather," Liam quickly explained. It was old, tattered, used. The chances of summoning a pokemon with it were zero. He had something much better. "I want the trainer who found it!"

Delusional or not, John spoke of an unknown pokemon. Everyone wrote him off because they didn't believe him. If that pokemon was indeed the owner of this feather than it was more than capable of institutionalizing a human. It could move oceans, break skies, and destroy cities with one flap of its wings. And John had met it in person. There was a chance he could do it again. Every second counted. Liam leapt past Master Ruji so fast that the wake of his passing disturbed the old man's beard.

"Stop right there," Master Ruji commanded. The words were spoken plainly. They were not yelled nor shouted and yet Liam skid to a stop in the gravel. He whirled around in a gasp of withheld excitement. Master Ruji carefully and slowly, turned around. "There's no point trying to stop you," he admitted. "I know better than that. You've challenged this gym three times already and I know it won't be the last. But hear this." He pointed a gnarled finger at the ace. "Do not drag that boy into any of your _funny_ business."

"No comedians here," Liam winked.

"Really? Because you could have fooled me. Mrs. Johnson said she saw two strangers hanging around McAlister's last night, not a day after you come here with a stranger wielding more defensive wounds than a clyoster shell."

Liam's smile dropped down to the sand at his feet. "What?"

"That boy isn't made for mischief," he said in reference to John. "Keep bringing it into my city and believe me when I say, you have not battled me angry."

Perseus jumped back onto Ruji's shoulder. That pokemon alone was responsible for three failed gym challenges. Liam swallowed the lump in his throat. A bead of sweat ran down his neck. Not only from the very real and present threat of banishment from the dojo should he fail to uphold himself as an honorable and worthy ace, but because someone from the Royal Jewels had come and gone without him knowing anything about it.

"I'm sorry Gramps, you have my word," Liam said. He tried to hide his fear with a smile like he always did. And like always, Master Ruji saw right through it. Liam quickly turned around before the master saw something much deeper and darker. Ruji did not follow. He had uttered his final warning. From here on out, Liam's actions would decide the rest. And right now, he had to get to McAlister's as soon as possible.

Cork City had an invisible moral ward around it. Liam never considered the possibility that the underground would follow him all the way out here. He ran out of the dojo and down the road. McAlister's was the last place he saw John and the last place a group of outsiders shady enough to blip on Master Ruji's radar was seen. The town was too small for coincidences. Did John summon these strangers? Were they his contacts to possibly sell off the _Silver Wing_? Was he a fence for antiquities? Then again, why would Master Ruji protect someone considered to be a bad guy? That old geezer could smell mischief five miles away, most of the time because he started it. Liam scratched his head with a growl. No, that wasn't it. He slowed in front of the eatery, scrambling to catch his breath.

The lights were out, door locked, and a "Closed" sign hung in the window, as expected after a party like last night. Old man McAlister wouldn't lock up if there was still someone inside. John hadn't been left behind. Liam took a step back and glanced around. Aside from the shrubbery Marcus crushed when he fell out of the door last night, everything seemed to be in place. He jogged around to the back. Both trash cans were full. Even the wild pokemon were wise enough not to disturb it until the coast was clear.

No signs of a broken entry or fist fight, just a few cigarette butts which were odd for a place like Cork City, but not enough to be considered the traces of a stake out. Liam walked back out onto the main road. He whistled sharply. Nothing came and nothing answered. Athena was still missing, just like John. Were they together? She certainly wasn't with Marco. Not a chipper or flap disturbed the morning and John was just as forgetful to put away his pokemon as Marcus was to keep them nearby. Both pidgeotto were gone. Which was even more puzzling because, if John was looking to make a profit, the male would fetch a higher price than the female from uniqueness alone.

Marcus appeared down the road in full sprint for the ace. Surprisingly, all three of his pokemon were with him. B.B. rode on his shoulder, Zoro ran out in front, and Porthos, his makuhita, struggled to keep up in the back. All four skid to a halt in front of Liam. "Sensei said you ran out of the compound like a zubat outta hell," Marcus gasped between pants. "What's the deal?"

Liam was tempted to answer but instead put a hand to his lip and looked around with a scrunch of his nose. A smoky twang defiled the usually crisp mountain air. Charcoal in nature and somewhat sulfuric, it smelt like the traces of a weapon. Or a pokemon. "Do you smell that?" Liam asked.

Marcus turned up his nose but it wasn't because of the smell. " _Che_ , and here I thought you were in trouble and needed my help. That cryptic old bastard . . ."

Liam thought about muttering the same until Zoro ran past them. He hurried down the road several paces before he lightly tapped to a stop and picked up something off of the ground. He turned around and held it up. Liam dropped his stale disappointment, walked over, and took it. Something _pinged_. Marcus looked around at the sound. Liam immediately pulled out his phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen. An alert popped up from a number that would be disconnected by the end of the day.

"So did you find the kid or what?" Marcus asked, oblivious to the technological interruption.

"No," Liam answered as he turned around and held out his phone, "but it looks like you've got a hot date tonight."

A message lit up the screen. It was part of a mass alert meant for anyone willing to lose money, skirt the law, and have a little fun. It read: "Main Showcase Tonight: Hell Raiser Vs. The Hangman – Center Ring." The underground was hosting another fight. Tonight.

"What the fuck is this?" Marcus demanded with a jab of his finger that blurred the screen. "I told you, I wasn't going to fight-," he quickly glanced around and in a brief moment of control, lowered his voice. "I told you I wasn't fighting for those blood letters anymore!"

"I know," Liam answered as he delicately took away his phone before Marcus crushed it in his hands.

"But why would they promote a fight for tonight?" Marcus asked. "I'm all the way out here. I'm nowhere near the Ring. That hell hole of a city isn't remotely close. We would've had to leave hours ago to make it on time. Maybe last night or early morning if we were bookin' it."

"I don't get it either . . ." Liam's voice trailed away as distant words rang clear once more. " _Bring Hell Raiser back into the fight or we will_ ," the grunts in Boulder had warned. That was their message from the Royal Jewels. At the time, Liam didn't take the threat to heart because of the mouth it came from. It wasn't just a message. It was a promise.

"Well, they're about to get one helluva surprise," Marcus exclaimed with a satisfied cross of his arms over his chest, "Because Hell Raiser isn't fighting tonight."

"Oh he is," Liam corrected as he tucked the phone back into his pocket. "It's just the _Hell Raiser_ they met in Boulder."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Liam revealed the Cork City gym badge Zoro had given him. He held it between his fingers. The edges were becoming familiar in his hands. "It means, I know where John is."


	22. Curtain Call: 1

**Curtain Call: 1**

God, she hated nights like this. No hits. No heists. No extortions. Nothing. Every snitch had been snubbed and every favor cashed. Peace reigned from the monarchy of crime in one unusual and tranquil moment.

Talk about a buzz kill.

Vermillion blew a bubble from her lips. The bright green sour watermelon gum popped against the fangs behind it. Pokebelt fully stocked and loaded, the polisher's trigger finger restlessly tapped against her hip. She stood at the rail of a second floor balcony, overlooking a large warehouse sized arena teaming with grunts, vagabonds, and the like. They gave away most of their paychecks to the bar below and the rest to the bookies scattered amongst the crowd. A square metal cage sat on a platform in the center. It was currently empty but would soon be filled with contenders ready to bleed and break for a belt made of leather and gold that was worth less than the fighter's themselves.

Vermillion leaned against the rail with enough arch in her back to reward the bold and daring eye. Unfortunately, there were none. No one dared to catch her stare or even chance a dirty thought. It didn't help that her corset top put most men into a feint before they could even lather a drool. But not even the young and foolish newbies dared to reach out and grope her black leathered ass. Usually, there was at least one. No broken fingers tonight. It looked like her reputation had copyrighted her sex appeal and broadcasted it across the masses. From the bugs to the bosses, they knew to keep their distance.

It was well warranted. And fucking boring.

Vermillion lowered onto her elbows against the rail and hugged her arms close to her breasts for maximum lift. Still, nothing. Confrontation would allude her tonight. Excitement too. The Ring was where Vermillion usually spent her time when there wasn't any work to be done or a job to be had. Watching sweaty, shirtless men, beat each other senseless with their feet and fists normally sent her purring, but with her favorite contender, Hell Raiser, a no show, her loins were as cold as her reputation. At this point, she would have taken an errand to the grocery store.

Vermillion put her head in her hand and popped another bubble. An influx of woman swarmed the Ring House ground floor below. Drinks at the bar were at half price. No wonder the men were already preoccupied. Why chance death when sin slid so readily into one's lap. The Royal Jewels were probably stalling until they found a replacement for their no show main player. It was a useless effort. Hell Raiser had aroused an apocalypse with his previous performance. Without him, the Ring was just another episode of a fight club rerun she had seen a million times before. Vermillion sighed and stood up, turning to lean her back against the rail and look into the open VIP lounge where she often prowled.

Sponsors excitedly gossiped and complained amongst one another around the leather stitched couches and illuminated tables. Several were even on their feet. But they were too busy worrying about the money they were losing over the failed match to pay any attention to her. After all, she wasn't a contender, and their own fighters were starting to show boat in the hopes of filling in Hell Raiser's spot. She had even gone through the trouble of riveting her new corset. The bastards. Vermillion removed her gum and smashed it on a nearby ash tray.

If she wanted, she could seduce several into her company with little effort but that would have been too easy. Was there no one here _man_ enough to take the challenge? Vermillion poisonously smiled as she glanced through the racks of men worth champion titles and millionaire estates. Apparently not. For the safety of all involved, it was probably better that they avoided her anyway. In a mood like this, she was more likely to bite than play. And thinking of biters, Cutter, the sableye, suddenly returned to Vermillion's shoulder. He presented a 24 caret gold diamond banded ring. No doubt the product of many a Ring victory. It probably belonged to one of the fighters in the lounge nominating themselves as the fighter worthy enough to take Hell Raiser's place. Vermillion pocketed it with a kiss to her jeweled eye pokemon.

"At least you're still sweet to me," she cooed. And what better reason to move on somewhere else.

Cutter took refuge in the luscious curled locks of his trainer's hair as Vermillion walked through the lounge. A private catwalk cut across the warehouse to the other side of the complex. A few taps of her stiletto pumps and the polisher made her way down the stairwell towards new prospects. If the Ring wasn't up to snuff tonight, than maybe the Cage was. Same concept only it involved pokemon trainers and not martial artists. Flinging pokemon into life or death matches was fine and dandy but add in the scheming intelligence of a trainer and the danger escalated three fold. Witnessing black eyes and broken jaws was one thing, electrocution and impalement another. Something about pokemon vs. pokemon vs. human removed a morality from the event that made the fights more popular than basic beatings between fighters. Maybe the matches tonight would be more arousing?

Vermillion detoured to the ground floor, skipping the higher level lounges and the politics that went with them. Maybe she could bump into a stranger that might accidently forget his place and make a pass at her. The riffraff were acceptable patsies when hunting for a little entertainment. The crowd here was livelier. Music dully pounded in the background, boosting the entrance of one of the competing trainers as he made his way to the Cage from an elevated walkway. It was a much larger and elaborate version of the Ring. Domed and reinforced to withstand and contain most pokemon attacks, it resembled a snow globe, if it was made of steel webbing and filled with blood.

The occasional _thunder shock_ or _flamethrower_ that slipped through the bars always heightened the danger of the match, especially for those at the closest perimeter. Some even got off on the effect. But the entire Cage House seemed to be in high spirits tonight. Fans cheered and rallied close to the Cage to catch a glimpse of tonight's favored contender: "Mammoth". Clothed in a heavy fur coat, he shouted as if he had taken the life and the name of the animal it was made from with his bare hands. Not likely. He may have had the body of a Ring fighter but that gut weighed him down as much as that gaudy coat.

Gold and silver rings pumped his fists higher into the air, gleaming with the hopes of reaching heaven, but it was the deep red jewel hanging from the chain around his neck that condemned him to hell. Mammoth was one of Boss Ruby's boys. Today marked the start of the Cage House Tournament. He was going for a spot at Champion. Judging by the way his eyes bugged out of his bald head with every laugh, his spot in the running was already claimed. Vermillion crossed her arms over her chest in a sigh. Was there nothing good on tonight? Shit, flipping through channels at the loft would have been better than this. At least _there_ she could pick what she wanted to watch. Rigged matches were never as good as the real thing.

"Go out and see what you can pocket," Vermillion said to Cutter with a turn of her cheek. "Might as well make something of the night."

The sableye chattered, scuttled down from his perch, and disappeared into the crowd. Vermillion looked back at the Cage. Mammoth shed his coat and stepped through the gate and into the domed battle platform. He stuck out his tongue and paraded around its outer rim, marking his territory. Men. The other gate remained closed. His opponent had yet to arrive. The delay could only mean one of two things: the challenger was refusing to fight or trying to bail out. If Mammoth's victory was already assured, than so was his defeat. Blow outs often ended bloody. The contenders in this house were called Blood Aces for a reason. Vermillion couldn't blame the poor bastard and his party pokemon but there was only so much showboating Mammoth could do, and that the sponsors would take, before they pulled the plug.

The Ring was already losing business. If the Cage followed, the Royal Jewels weren't going to be happy, and when they weren't happy, they made it a point that no one else was. Vermillion was a polisher. Take away the warm sweet smell of blood and fear and replace it with the acrid stench of public relations, and she would have preferred to be shot in the stomach than participate. Pleasing the public was not her favorite job, in fact, it never was her job at all, but if it meant business was booming, she'd do it. Especially, since there was nothing else to do. Might as well play the part. Vermillion pushed up her lips, ran her hands down her waist, and walked into the crowd. It split as she crossed the main floor of the arena towards the Cage. Her reputation preceded her. As usual. Vermillion jumped over the speakers and cage generators to the "Staff Only" zone. She clicked down the center walkway of the entrance tunnel to the backstage area.

"Get your greasy hands off of my pokemon!" she heard. Vermillion raised a brow. At least there was someone out tonight who was willing to cause a little trouble.

"Only two pokemon in the cage tonight," another replied. "Rules are rules. The rest stay out."

Four men stood near the end of the tunnel. One was the Ticket Master, a P.R. representative of sorts for the Cage House. Complete with microphone headset, clipboard, and backstage utility belt, it was his job to make sure the neon score boards stayed lit and the itinerary intact. Two grunts stood in front of him and his clipboard of divine law. They struggled to hold back a man. Given his six inch height advantage, they were lucky to hang onto him at all. The ticket master took the pokebelt offered to him from the black sweater pair and removed the attached pokeballs. He might as well have cut off the trainer's finger with a pair of hedge clippers with each ball he removed.

Having mastered the art of torture, Vermillion knew when a victim was about to break . . . or do some breaking. She lowered her walk down to her hips and adjusted her hair with a subtle shake of her head. Both poison coated lips turned into a frown, a hand went to her waist, and the polisher stuck out her heel in a stop worthy of a runway. Let the fun begin.

"What the hell is going on here?" she shouted. The group flinched to attention, all except one, the bandage man in the middle. Tattered from head to foot in medical tape, he refused to take his eyes off of his pokebelt. Both hands were bound. Now, she understood the reason for the delay. Mammoth's rise to Cage Champion would begin with a sacrifice. It happened frequently, trainers who found themselves on the wrong side of the Jewels. A slave of sorts, sold into competition after losing their worth, and becoming nothing more than chum for the masses. It was every boss's way of making an example.

Tonight's match would be a feeding frenzy.

But Mammoth's meal would be a lean one. The man was tall and thin, but didn't she know those biceps? Vermillion couldn't be sure until the grunts looked her way, gasped, and used the trainer as a human shield between them. It wasn't until he swayed with the jerk that she recognized him. That gentle lean, quiet step, and freshly cut pectorals: it was none other than _Confusion_ incarnate from Boulder. Much more self-aware then when they first met but still the same kid from before. He was thinner and taller without the persistent twirling and stumbling. It made him look weak and soft, like a fine cut of veal.

"V-v-vermillion," the Ticket Master stuttered as held up his clipboard to protect the arteries in his neck. Vermillion ignored him. Instead, she stepped in front of the sacrificial lamb. What was his name again, Jacob or something? Champ? Either way, it didn't matter. He was at the bottom of the food chain now. Couldn't say she was surprised to find him there. The trainer was already in rough shape at Boulder when the goon squad was after him. Looks like fancy pants Valenis took her advice and threw his weakness to the wolves. She would have done the same, only sooner.

Vermillion came up against the trainer. He looked down at her, outmatching her in height even with her heels, yet nothing about him wanted to be above her.

"Is our trainer not willing to fight?" she asked. Being forced to fight in a cage for the sheer pleasure of violence put most captives on edge.

"I'll fight," the trainer corrected. "But I refuse to leave my pokemon behind with these . . . people."

A champion of virtue this one. Vermillion's smirk flashed in her eyes. Most trainers believed that they only had two choices. Fight in the Cage or face the point of her sneasel's claw through their throat. This champion believed in a third option: that he actually stood a chance. Ruby would never risk one of his blood aces with a failure's chance at redemption. Champ didn't seem to know that. His vigilance was delectable. Vermillion silently breathed in the aroma. The grunts stepped back in a hot sweat. Champ stayed where he was. He neither tensed nor swelled at her proximity. In fact, he even relaxed a little. She would fix that. Vermillion put a hand to his bandaged chest. He blushed and his muscles tightened. That was more like it. Vermillion bit her lip.

"How about a compromise," she proposed. "I'll hang onto your pokemon." She walked her fingers up his chest. "Until you're done battling."

Or dead.

Her dark black lashes fluttered. They froze when she caught Champ's gaze. Serious thought adorned those baby blues. The color of them strong enough to cool his blush. His gaze was fixated upon her and it wasn't because of her corset. "Alright," he suddenly agreed. "I'll fight. No complaints, only if-

-I hold onto your pokemon?" Vermillion finished.

"If you watch over my pokemon," Champ corrected.

Somehow, he didn't seem as thin as before. Vermillion ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip. The two grunts glanced at one another, terrified, as they should be. But they were just rats roasting over a spit. Vermillion looked at the Ticket Master with a toss of her tight red curls and held out her hand. The Ticket Master looked down at the pokebelt. He then looked at its owner. Vermillion sharpened her gaze with a pinch of her brow. Her smile dropped faster than the hand to the switch blade strapped to her thigh.

"You heard the B.A.," she coolly expressed. The nails of her outstretched hand elongating to claws under the dark light. "Give it to me."

Champ willing put himself on the table. She wasn't about to let this rare cut of innocence spoil because of a pocket protector. The Ticket Master carefully fastened the balls in place and held out the belt, wincing as if waiting for a bite on the hand. Vermillion swiped it out of his possession. She then stretched it out for her own inspection. What did her little "Champ to be" have to offer? Two nest balls and a classic on the left. A friend ball and another classic on the right. More of a kumbaya array than Kung foo. Still, two pokemon in. The rest out. Who should she choose? Asking the owner wouldn't be any fun.

Vermillion glanced up at Champ. His eyes ran back and forth along the belt, afraid to land on a certain pokemon as if knowing it would give Vermillion some direction as to who he wanted, or didn't want her to pick. She smiled and kept her eyes on him, daring his gaze to stop, as she strapped the belt around her waist with the seduction of an undressing. This time, John blatantly turned away. God, he was an easy tease. Vermillion bit back her smile and chose the first ball on each side simply because they were the closest to the inside of her hips. John had to look in that direction if he wanted to know who he was fighting with. He did, if only for his pokemon. Vermillion rewarded his efforts by presenting the two pokeballs. He took them and held them close to his chest with no belt to keep them secure. It reminded her of the tentacruel plush on top of the refrigerator at home.

"Alright, then," Vermillion stated as she put both hands on her hips. "Problem solved."

"Not quite," the Ticket Master intervened. Vermillion clacked a heel against the bravado. The Ticket Master hid behind his clipboard again but he wasn't called "Master" for nothing. "Our B.A. doesn't have a call sign," he quickly informed with an adjustment of his headset. The voices shouting in his ear growing more irritated by the millisecond. In a few minutes, they might just even send a lieutenant down to express their disappointment in person. If only they knew the terror that was already upon them.

"Y-you know the rules," he continued with a stutter. "No real names for contenders in any House. If we're even going to pretend that this is a real match, he needs a name."

Champ perked at that but it was one of the grunts behind him that spoke up. "I've got a name," he exclaimed now that they were relieved of their responsibility and a safe distance from the polisher. "How about Jail Bait?"

"No, no, Roadkill!" the second chimed in.

The Ticket Master rolled his eyes, the usual frustrations of his job overriding his intimidation especially with the curtains about to open. "Please, like I could ever put something so distasteful on my board. I need something the Jewels won't be ashamed of."

Vermillion cast another glance at her new muse. She pursed her lips lightly as if to entice enlightenment with a kiss. Her hand ran along the second pokebelt strung across her waist. Because of the difference in length, Champ's belt hung low across her hips. It pulled to one side like a cowboy's holster. Its owner was hardly a gunslinger but he did have a beaten desert basin vibe about him. Wrapped in gauze from head to foot with a willingness to undergo a death sentence that most would consider a fate worse than having all of our organs ripped out of your body, stuffed into jars, and sold on the black market. . . Vermillion pointed a finger at the trainer's chest. She knew exactly what to name him.

"Pharaoh," she declared. "His call sign is 'Pharaoh'."

The two grunts looked at one another in a sneer of jealousy. In their eyes, the name didn't match the worth of the wearer but it was enough for the Ticket Master to accept. He stenciled in the name.

"It'll do," he said before waving to someone in the background.

Vermillion turned towards the tunnel. The heavy click of spotlights illuminated the far end of the it, signaling the entrance of another contender. _Her_ contender. The match wouldn't last long but at least she managed to find something to preoccupy her for the next ten minutes.

"Get a movin' there _Pharaoh_ ," she said with a rock of her hips and beckoning wink. "Your tomb awaits."


	23. Curtain Call: 2

**Curtain Call: 2**

It started with a clap. Heavy stomping followed until the entire Cage House shook with the obsession and passion of a stadium. The microphone crackled to life with the announcer's cue. "ARE YOU READY?" he screamed in an elongated draw of the crowd.

Hardly.

John stumbled into the Cage and the door slammed shut behind him. It's damning echo louder than any mortal sound. He felt the vibrations as the lock _banged_ into place. No sense turning around to look at it. John knew he was trapped. He looked up at the scoreboard above the Cage. Tiles rapidly reset themselves in a series of _clicks._ They suddenly stopped to reflect each trainer's call sign and updated gambling odds: 10 to 1. It was one percent more than John expected. Thick drafts of light spotlighted the platform. The metal dome cast linear shadows in a crisscross pattern across the floor. For a moment, John thought himself to be under the shade a forest canopy once more, only these trees grew from hell.

"And now, ladies and gentleman," the announcer continued in full rapture and delight. "I present to you, a trainer born in the land of giants, the great hulking behemoth himself, too strong to fall to extinction: MAMMOTH!"

The shadow quilt vanished as a secondary set of lights built within the dome snapped on. John blinked back the blindness and raised his hand against them, if only to protect himself from the surge of cheers as his opponent came into focus. Mammoth threw up his arms, pulling several fans from their seats with them. Solo cups crunched underneath their fingers. Veins bulged in screaming imitation of the blood ace. Mammoth hammered his fists down to his sides with a stomp that shook the platform, a trumpet of the beast within. No doubt his signature entrance from the way the crowd mimicked the stamp with an added "Hoo Rah!" at the end that tested the energized boundaries of the thickly wired cage.

"And his challenger, in his cherry popping performance, the man who believes himself equal with the gods: Pharaoh!"

The following cheer was indecisive. Much like John's expression as to whether he should be disgusted or intimidated by the behavior of his opponent. Was he supposed to have a signature as well? Sticking out his arms and tottering forward felt more Frankenstein than mummy so John kept that part to himself.

"Two pokemon. Two rounds. The first to KO his opponent's pokemon wins!"

A bell dinged loudly in the background. John half expected cameras to swing his way. Just where the hell was he, a wrestling match or a pokemon pit? Probably a mix of both.

"Pharaoh releases first," the announcer prompted. " _Show your opponent what you've got so he can get the type advantage_ ," is what John heard.

The trainer exhaled sharply. If he was going to swim with the fishes, he might as well dive in head first rather than belly flop. John popped open one of two pokeballs in his hands. Charles appeared center stage, fast asleep and in a snore, for the whole world to see. He rubbed his face against the floor in a dream. Laughter broke out across the arena but not even that awoke the rushing pokemon. A bead of sweat ran down John's temple. It had been hours, maybe even a full day since he had been abducted. What the hell kind of sake did Master Ruji drink?

Mammoth exploded in laughter, nearly tearing his vocal cords to make a point. "This is what you give me?" he shouted with eyes towards the second floor balcony of the Cage House. "I don't know whether to be insulted or humiliated!"

"How about humored?" John suggested from behind. Mammoth looked down so quickly that his teeth crashed together. "I've been told I have quite the sense of humor."

Although, according to Sensei's fists, John's jokes often insulted more than amused. Apparently, Mammoth felt the same. The hulking giant ripped a pokeball off of his waist and from a pokebelt fully equipped with six party pokemon. Wasn't it supposed to be two versus two? John glanced behind him at Vermillion. She stood by the tunnel entrance several feet away from the Cage. His own belt accented her waist like a clip of ammunition. Two on two but the chump change didn't get to pick with who. Wonderful. Vermillion drew her hand, and John's gaze, up from her waist with a finger. She waved the black tip back and forth. He could almost hear the reprimanding _tsk_ of her tongue. Life lesson #11: never take your mind off of the battle.

John whirled around. Mammoth had already released his first pokemon, a glalie, and in the time John wasted worrying about morality, the frozen face pokemon had collected enough moisture for an _icy wind_. The attack blew from his filter like mouth in a hiss, shooting off ice crystals from his slated teeth better than electric blue sparks. In his stupor, Charles took the full force of the wintery gust and tumbled backwards. John dropped to his knees faster than a prayer. He caught the linoone in one arm and the _ice_ in the other, shielding them from the _wind_. Pins and needles stabbed through the protective covering of his bandages.

Hair tipped with frost, John swiped the last of the attack away and set Charles on the ground. The linoone shuddered awake but slipped. Ice skating wasn't his specialty. He slumped to the ground. Glalie's mechanical voice rumbled in satisfaction. White clouds streaked through his filtered mouth with the next breath. John could see it in the lights. Was it just him or was the Cage getting colder? Ice collected over Glalie's body from unseen pockets of water within, bursting and freezing upon contact. The pokemon suddenly threw himself into a rapid spin. He didn't need claws or teeth to fight. Only pokemon energy, physics, and an intent to kill.

John sucked in a sharp gasp, leapt forward, and snatched Charles from the floor. He rolled away as an _ice shard_ exploded where he had been moments before. Crystals showered him with the elegance of glass in a car crash. Colder, thicker air steamed from Glalie's mouth. Another spin blurred away his face. John scrambled to his feet and sprinted across the Cage with Charles in his arms. Heavier chunks of ice peppered his back. Loud shattering crashes deafened the cheers of the crowd. They popped like gunshots.

One broke across the metal cage in front of John, causing him to flinch into a back pedal. Charles couldn't take the pressure or the sudden shift in motion. He heaved and John found out exactly what kind of sake Master Ruji didn't like. It splashed over his arm and down his lower half, momentarily warming his limbs, until suddenly cooling in the pull of another energized spin. Something whistled. John spun to the side. He saw the ice shard this time as it passed, a nearly smooth spike instead of a heavy chunk of ice. Glalie was getting colder, stronger, deadlier.

John's pupils widened. They swallowed the projectile coming for him. At that moment, he realized what had befallen him. This wasn't a match at the dojo, a street fight in the alley, or even a pokemon battle on steroids. This was the real thing. His opponent intended to kill him. Impalement, not bombardment awaited his first mistake. Death would soon follow. Luckily, he and the reaper were on a first name basis.

John pivoted on his ankle. He closed his eyes and spun away into the wall of the dome, grabbing the metal with one hand to prevent himself from bouncing back into the attack. Too thick too shatter, the _shard_ broke into several smaller pieces when it struck the Cage. Vibrations rocked through his hand. They shook his eyes open. For the first time that night, John looked into the crowd with Charles dangling from his arm and realized that his enemy wasn't confined to inside the Cage. He was surrounded. Thrown concessions bounced against the metal. Beer and bile wafted from the audience. Cat calls, whistles, and laughter berated John and Charles from every side. The entire arena expected Pharaoh to fail. Every spectator hoped that he would. This battle, his life, was utterly worthless without a bloody and violent end.

John's racing heart turned against him. He couldn't breathe and not just from the pain in his chest. Never before had he faced such adversity, such hatred directed at himself as a person. John knew he needed to return to the fight. Sensei's teachings screamed in his head, warning him to turn around and face his enemy, but there was no life lesson that could prepare him for evil such as this. And even if there was, it couldn't be heard over the spittle frothing jeers crucifying what John knew the world to be. There was one thing, however, that never failed to reach the trainer's ears. A single soft groan rose above the music and fear. Charles' groan. John looked down at the linoone hanging over his arm. Losing the contents of his stomach helped settle his sickness, but the fatigue of it all proved to be an even more fearsome opponent. Charles gave himself completely to John's hold. He could not fight.

The crowd stirred. Never in sympathy. Instead, they lifted in excitement, looking beyond the feeble pair and into the Cage where true beauty and terror lie. Something was coming. Another attack from behind his back. John held his breath. He tightened his grip on the wall, curled over Charles, and pushed his body against the Cage. Another _icy wind_ screamed against him. Ice crystals crackled, crawling over his back in a freezing touch that quickly frosted his skin. It slapped over his exposed left shoulder, the one providing the most cover to the linoone tucked underneath. John squeezed his already whitened knuckles even harder against the metal and winced. He could do nothing but endure.

In that sliver of sight between ice and metal, John saw them clearly: the dark eyed, greasy haired, discolored smiles happily blessing him with profanities. He quickly closed his eyes before they too burned him like the ice against his back. Helping one's pokemon was a mistake in this world. One the crowd gladly toasted with broken bottles and spit. One John would happily make over and over again. He hugged Charles tighter against his chest. The crackling rush of air thinned. Glalie huffed out the remains of his attack. Behind him, Mammoth raised his hands and spun to facilitate the antagonizing measures of the crowd.

Against so much pain and confusion, the enthusiastic thrall faded to a background hum as John weakly opened his eyes. A frosty breath smoked from his mouth. It failed to warm his blue lips. He tried to release his hold on the metal cage but couldn't. His sweaty skin licked the cold frosted metal, sticking the two together. John lifted his head. Ice cracked at the seam of his neck. It splintered against the subtle movement of his shoulders. Crystals crinkled and crackled. Flecks dusted off of his skin but most stuck to the bandages. John looked down at the linoone in his arms. Charles had fallen asleep, too dizzy and tired to keep his eyes open when cuddled against the warmth of his trainer's chest. Even the frosty tinge from the first attack had melted from his fur. He hadn't felt a thing. John smiled.

This cold and ugly metal world wasn't his, but the pokemon sleeping in his arms, was. That's all that mattered and he'd be damn sure not to expose his pokemon to this freak show any longer.

John willed life back into his hand. His spirit moved his congealing blood. Its warmth, weak as it was, melted his connection to the metal bar. He pulled the hand away, leaving a layer of bandages behind instead of skin. He stood close to the Cage, wincing as he uncurled from his hunch and slowly maneuvered Charles to access the pokeballs clenched in the hand underneath. One press activated an automatic withdrawal. Charles returned without waking from his dream. A buzzer sounded. John caught a red glow in the corner of his eye. He didn't have to look at the scoreboard to know what it meant. A withdrawal was as good as a loss in this tournament.

The classic ball closed with a snap. At full size it pushed the second pokeball out of John's trembling fingers. It fell and hit the platform on its release. John stepped away from the flash in a wobble, the painful stiffness of the cold aggravating his injured legs. He too fell for the floor. A little chill too much for his aching joints? What was he, an old man? Sensei would be ashamed. Something rough and ridged hit John's arm. It fell perfectly into place, just like it had done a hundred times before, catching John mid fall. He looked down. Lopo glanced up without moving his head.

"Thanks, boy," John said with half a smile. He suddenly shuddered in a cough, his tired ribs and lungs nearly paralyzed by the cold. Shock would soon follow. If he didn't warm up, he would die. Lopo silently watched John rub a shaky hand into his sternum, trying to warm it with hands as cold as the ice around them. Try as he may, it wouldn't do the trick. He had lost too much already, and still, the trainer lifted to his full height, containing his pain to a mere tighten of the eye. He turned around in a shuffle. Mammoth gnashed his teeth together, dropping his celebration in another territorial trumpet. He lost the type advantage in an instant. Better to end the match now before it really started.

" _Sheer cold_!" he commanded from his pokemon. Glalie huffed out an agreement. His body suddenly began to smoke in another temperature drop. Mammoth reached out and grabbed the heavy cloak passed to him through the bars. He threw it over his shoulders. The deep freeze spread and strengthened. John was already shivering when it reached him. His breath frosted into visibility once more. The power of the _sheer cold_ dropped his body temperature better than a push into the sea during the dead of winter. If the conditions were right, it was sure to win a feint, and with an already hypothermic body temperature, it was sure to kill. Kill or be killed.

What did it matter in a world that was already dead?

If this was hell. Lopo refused to let it be a frozen one. The houndoom remained motionless but the air around him didn't. It folded in and over itself with the heat pouring from his body. All pokemon stored energy in their bodies. For fire types, it resulted in an internal heat. For Lopo, it meant a raging furnace. Heat radiated from the dark pokemon. It seeped into John's body, melting the ice trapped within his bandages and soaking them in water. Lopo's black coat was too short to ripple in it but John's pants could. They shifted in the pseudo _heat wave_. Even without access to the open air, a breeze picked up within the dome. The clash of cold and hot air created a current within the Cage. John removed his hand from Lopo's horns before the rising heat burned his fingertips.

Cheers turned to murmurs in the background. Glalie looked around him, swiveling in the air for an explanation. Every drop of moisture around him evaporated faster than he could collect it. The heat spread. Mammoth began to sweat underneath his cloak. They needed to cool things down. Now. "Icy wind!" he snarled with a throw of his hand.

Glalie tilted back in an inhale. The exhale harshly buzzed through his filtered mouth. Not a single crystal escaped intact. Mammoth threw off his coat in the same confused frustration as the audience did their expectations of the match. They couldn't understand the phenomenon before them. Neither party moved. Fire nor ice tore across the Cage, and yet the room only grew hotter. Why? John had the answer. He understood what was happening because he was raised by a pokemon ranger nearly as much as the houndoom. And rangers were the only trainers powerful enough to groom an innate pokemon ability into a full blown pokemon attack. John pinched an eye in another squint, this time with sweat on his brow. He continued to shudder but his cough now turned into a pant. Lopo stood so close that they nearly touched. His internal heat threatened to burn the trainer's leg, but John couldn't retreat, not from a fight and never from his pokemon.

Besides, Lopo's eyes burned as fiercely as his energy type. He didn't need an opponent's attack to activate his _flash fire_ ability, only a rage so hot that it activated itself. There was only one person in the world capable of cooling it. And, she was longer in it. John couldn't stop the inferno raging inside. But he could channel it.

" _Flamethrower_!" he shouted.

Lopo opened his jaws in a torrent of flame. It shrieked into life and soared across the battlefield, splashing backwards against the metal cage to fill half of the dome with fire. Screams accompanied the sudden burst of light and heat. Flames spit through the metal webbing. Spectators hopped backwards to avoid them. Several people on the second balcony jumped to their feet. Security personnel rushed into the crowd, holding up their arms from the blinding light of the instant firestorm.

"Enough," John yelled through the roaring surge of pressure. At this rate, Lopo was going to burn down the building, and it wouldn't be his first. "Lopo, stop!"

The houndoom clamped off the attack. Leftover flames curled off of his lips. He stepped forward, head low and eyes straight, tail as still as the audience. The flames instantly dispersed, leaving glowing red metal bars behind. They hazed the air with a hiss. Boiling heat remained in the arena, dispersing slowly as if to spit upon the icy infringement. John appeared through the clearing steam. His eyes heavy and pant slow. Sweat streamed down his face. Both pant legs showed the gradation of a burn: from white at the farthest corner to brownish black in the middle, and the black edges of several holes on the leg closest to the houndoom where the heat had consumed the fabric. Brittle tattered edges slowly settled in the cooling temperature. A light tan smoked the outer coating of John's bandages. He could see where the fabric had begun to disintegrate. Anymore and it would have reached his skin.

For some, it reached far deeper. Glalie had fallen to the floor, a dead lump of stone in the middle of the Cage. His body shrunk to its bare rocky core. Its icy blue caps melted down to mere pebble sized puddles in only the deepest of crevices. A bon-a-fide feint if John ever saw one. Mammoth was in a similar position. Curled up into a fetal position on the floor, he suddenly sprang to life from within his blackened and smoking fur coat. He threw it from him, part of it still aflame. He then ran for the gate on his side of the cage, kicking his pokemon out of the way in the process.

"Let me out," he screamed between banging fists. "Get me out of here you idiots!"

A member of Mammoth's crew unlocked the door, more fearful of what those fists might do rather than out of loyalty to the demand. The steaming beast fell out of it. He snatched a bottle of water from a bystander and poured it over himself, sighing in relief. Two red "X"s appeared underneath his call sign on the board. Run from the fight, forfeit the match. But no one heard the deciding buzzer. No one spoke. The only sound in the air was a howl as Lopo threw back his head. They shivered in its echo. John steadied. He grabbed his stiff frozen arms and listened to the call until its completion. As a child, he never found it haunting, but now, all he heard was death.

 _Her_ death.

Lopo lowered his head. Somehow his voice remained. It echoed across the Cage House. John settled a hand on the houndoom's horn again, in as much comfort as support. Neither looked at one another. This strange new world they found themselves in now an unavoidable reality.

"I know," John softly whispered with a pat. "I miss her too."


	24. Curtain Call: 3

**Curtain Call: 3**

"We have a problem."

Lieutenant Jesse unloaded a sack filled with clips of paper money onto the desk. Several gold coins clattered out from the bottom. One rolled to the edge of the desk closest to Vermillion. She watched it ring to a stop.

"Doesn't look like a problem," she said.

Boss Ruby slammed a hand on the desk and pointed an accusatory finger at the polisher. "You changed the House bet without permission," he shouted.

"Pharaoh won didn't he?" she shrugged.

Lieutenant Quill leaned over Vermillion's shoulder. "And that's the problem," he whispered. "Your dead man was supposed to be just that, dead. He wasn't supposed to win. That match was a qualifier for Cage Champion and now he's in the running for the title." Cutter, the sableye, appeared from within Vermillion's hair. He rattled out a hiss as sharp as his teeth. Quill flinched back. Not nearly as boisterous as her brother, Jesse, remained where she was at the edge of the desk. Although, her hand did stray from the money to the hem line of her dress where her pokebelt was stitched into it. Vermillion crossed her arms over her chest.

"Really, Big Red? I thought you would've been happy considering all of the coin you would have lost tonight if I didn't change the bet. Just be thankful you were the last one on my good side, otherwise, you _wouldn't_ have been the Jewel I polished tonight."

Boss Ruby's face turned as red as his name but he said nothing. He didn't have to with Quill manifesting his ego. "Watch your tongue, slut," the lieutenant warned. He scanned the black devil's body, adding extra insult to the statement. Quill's legs suddenly flew out from beneath him. He landed on the floor with Luminesce, the sneasel, beside him but it wasn't her claw that kept him there. Vermillion's stiletto pressed into his throat. Jesse quickly stood, pokeball in hand. But she dared go no further when Vermillion looked up and raised her eyebrows, inviting the lieutenant to be the reason her heel slipped and sliced open her brother's throat.

Maybe she'd do it just for kicks. The look on Jesse's face would be priceless. But if Vermillion wanted to hurt Ruby tonight, she would have let him fail in the Cage. Although, this would've done _much_ more damage. Jewels and their fetishes. Then again, they all had their own. Vermillion looked down at the bug underneath her boot. "Speak to me like that again and I won't tell you to watch your tongue." She leaned on her knee for added weight and her hair dropped over her shoulders to plump up her red lips. "I'll just cut it out." She then flicked her eyes up to his female counterpart. "And feed it to your sister." Jesse clenched the pokeball in her hand and ran her thumb over the release.

Now, this was finally turning into a night worth staying up for.

"Both of you knock it off," Boss Ruby spat with a wave of his hand. "I just changed those carpets."

Vermillion would know. She stole them from Mile City Museum for him. And they _were_ antiques. She pulled back. Quill rolled away the moment her heel lifted. He retreated to stand on the other side of the desk. A silent and comforting gaze from his sister supported him. Vermillion arched lightly and blew him a kiss with a matching wink. Jesse pulled her gold painted lips up in a snarl. Ruby cut it off with another pound of his fist. It rattled the coins on the desk and dislodged several money clips.

"Leave it alone!" he said again. "You know she's out of your league and above your rank." The twins settled, counter balancing one another on the edges of the desk with Boss Ruby and the winnings in the middle.

"So what are we going to do now?" Big Red proposed as he sat back in his burgundy leather chair.

"Let's take him to the back and I'll do what we should have done from the very beginning," Jesse proposed. She looked at Vermillion and made a slice across her throat as formally as if tying a necktie. Vermillion preferred a switchblade to a fingernail. She fingered the one strapped to her thigh. Both women knew the motion wasn't in reference to just the contending blood ace. Vermillion didn't make friends or allies. She had clients, and many of those had not been in Ruby's best interests. Quill and Jesse would have loved to see her at the bottom of the river.

Ruby shook his head. "The match didn't go as planned, but we haven't done this well in the Cage House in a long time," he said.

Whoever said greed was green clearly never meet Boss Ruby.

"We can't just knock him off," Quill picked up. Both reprimanding his sister and addressing the boss' comment at the same time. Although, he would have liked to exorcise the red devil standing in front of him. If he could. Vermillion dared him to try with a stroke of her sneasel's ear. "The chatter was through the roof," Quill continued. "They'll know it was rigged," Jesse finished. Now that the twins were in sync, it was back to business at hand. Grudges aside.

"They already know," Vermillion added with a roll of her eyes. "The smart ones anyway . . . which means you're probably right." She picked up a fold of coin, flipped through it, found it unpleasant, and tossed it back onto the pile. The twins kept their eyes on her hips more than her hands. Even if the polisher pocketed the coin, they wouldn't have done anything about it. It was hers in the first place. Ruby lit a cigar and put his elbows on the desk. He puffed a smoky breath and eyed the coin in front of him. The pile was over a foot high

"What if we let him fight?" he proposed with another pull, causing the end of his cigar to glow bright red.

"It would be unwise," Jesse quickly cut down. "We kidnapped him just to get him here," Quill picked up. "There's no way he'd cooperate with us for long." "Besides, he was supposed to be filler." "Without us, he has no sponsor." "No backing." Vermillion wanted to roll her eyes again. The duality of conversation between the twins gave her a headache. "He won't be able to fight as a registered blood ace."

Ruby clenched his thick fingers into a fist. Luckily, Vermillion already had something in mind. "Why not put him up for auction?" she casually proposed. Ruby and the twins quieted. They were going about this the wrong way. Vermillion picked up a gold coin and held it up for inspection. "We do it for captured pokemon all the time." She flipped the coin between her fingers. "Catch a wild pokemon, sell it to the highest bidder, set it loose in the Cage, and lock it back up again." It stopped between her knuckles. Inspection complete: Real, clean, and worth three stacks of the folded coin below.

"If Pharaoh wants to live, he'll fight," she continued. "The first time he loses, he'll be disqualified and disposed of. Or, he'll be killed in the Cage and problem solved. It's not like that hasn't happened before." She flicked the coin at Ruby. He caught it in one snatch of his free hand and looked at it, also determining its worth.

"It's not a bad idea," he admitted. "But I don't normally deal in trafficking. That's Jade's expertise." Stepping into the territory of another Royal Jewel was dangerous but it was a solution to their mistaken identity dilemma and a way to get Vermillion out of the office. The twins each leaned in with their words. "It's not really trafficking," Quill explained. "But a transaction," Jesse clarified. "How do you think Jade purchases goods for her market?" "You won't tread on her heels if you dance around her." "Besides, the ace can hardly be considered alive." "He's practically a walking corpse." "It's not like we can let him leave after all that's happened." "He'll go straight to the boys in blue."

The twins glanced up at Vermillion. Even a polisher couldn't stop a first Lieutenant from doing what they did best, brown-nosing the boss. Then again. Which twin would be considered first and which one the second? It probably depended on whatever fetish Ruby was feeling that night.

"We haven't had a good death in the cage in a while," Quill reminded. "He won't make it far with the starter pack of pokemon he's got anyway." Vermillion scoffed. Did they not even see the fight? The twins frowned but Ruby ignored both of them.

"Alright, let's do it," Ruby agreed. "Get this _Pharaoh_ prepped and ready for sale. Let Sapphire know we forfeit ownership and make sure she gives us credit for all the sales she's about to make when he kicks the bucket. Also, just to be safe, send Jade a curtesy call to make sure no feelings are hurt." He took another draw from his cigar and leaned back in his chair. "Let's get as much coin off of this _pay day_ before the PP is up."

"We'll take care of it," Quill replied. "But I can't think of a single Jewel who'd want to invest in a magikarp like him," Jesse added. The twins smiled at one another before walking out of the room. Ruby started counting his coin.

Vermillion cut her teeth in another scoff and crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn't the insult to Pharaoh that bothered her, but rather, the fact that the twins were right.


	25. Curtain Call: 4

**Curtain Call: 4**

John felt himself lucky, all things considered, as a grunt shoved him into yet another unfamiliar and somewhat intimidating room. Neither color nor furniture adorned it. Stark white paint stretched from seam to seam. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. And somehow the builders still managed to shape out the depth defying color into a room that resembled the curvature of a pendulum. Glass lined the farthest and longest curved wall. Darkness lay beyond it. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Was this place real or just a horrific figment of the imagination? After defying expectation, defeating his opponent, and damaging the Cage with his performance, John expected something a little more back alley and bloody.

"Here." The grunt threw something at him. John turned around and caught his pokebelt clumsily in his chest. The grunt motioned at the center of the room. "Stand there and release your pokemon." He then slammed the door shut, making the wall a solid white once more. Man, these guys were pushy. First, they force him to use his pokemon to fight, then demand he withdraw them after the fight, and now release them again with nothing to fight. It would have been easier to let John keep them out, but then again, he wouldn't want a prisoner walking around with a war tank either. After Lopo's brief but notable performance, security in all fashions swarmed the Cage. Grunts, their pokemon, and their special reserves lined the bars, waiting for their exit.

Sure, the duo could have tried to fight their way out in a show worthy of Bonnie and Clyde. But even with Lopo's strength, they wouldn't have made it far before being overwhelmed. Besides, John wasn't going anywhere without the rest of his party. He counted the pokeballs strung along the belt. All were in place and undamaged. That in itself was worth staying for.

The trainer then slowly turned around to face the curved glass farther in the room. He limped lightly, the adrenaline withdrawal sending his body on a painful spiral deeper into the depths of distress. Old wounds resurfaced but they were hard to see under the fresh layer of more recent additions. There was the ice burn on his shoulder, fire burn on his leg, broken mountain side body, and the guiding knuckles of his escorts. Thankfully, Whey had redone his bandages to remove the wood stain before he left for McAlister's. His limbs may have fallen off without them. At least, he had his personality, right?

Considering who you asked, even that was questionable.

John slowly walked up to the curved wall. He couldn't see much through the tinted glass, only the suggestions of shapes and colors. Whatever this strange room was, it seemed to be on a stage set in some sort of small amphitheater. A crescent of steps, mirroring the shape of the curved wall, led up to several small booth like compartments at the top. People moved, sat, and stood within them. One or two used the pathway at the bottom to traverse from booth to booth. John was sure they could see him much clearer than he could see them but no one paid him much attention.

So this was what it felt like to be the unpopular exhibit at the zoo?

John looked back into the white room. Grooves along the floor indicated tracks where the walls could be moved to change the size and shape as needed. The floors were recently sterilized by the flat shine and smell. Why, he didn't really want to know. It churned his stomach with bad memories. John glanced upwards. An outer plastic shell protected the florescent lights. No paint on the walls. No decorations. Isolated and alone, there was nothing but himself to catch the eye.

John tapped on the glass. Thick, double walled, and pokemon proof. _Stand there and release your pokemon_ , the grunt had demanded. S _tand there, release your pokemon, and show this shit show what your worth_ , was what John heard. But at least, he was worth something. He wouldn't be alive otherwise. The trainer sighed and snapped his belt around his waist. _Release his pokemon or have the grunt do it for him_ was the more accurate interpretation. You didn't have to be an ace trainer to know that forcibly trying to control a pokemon without its trainer caused more problems than if the trainer commanded the pokemon themselves. Complying with their demands was exactly what big brother wanted, and would no doubt spell out his doom, but it was still _his_ choice.

John unfastened Charles' classic ball and enlarged it. Two cameras in the back corners refocused. Several people in the theater started to move, signaling a silent change to whatever was about to happen next. John had no clue what _that_ specifically was but, the longer he kept his pokemon in his hands, the better. Marco, Lopo, and Charles, they were all he had left in this timeline, and he wasn't going to endanger them by being stupid. Besides, keeping secrets and shrouding his opponents in mystery wasn't really his style. Better to have all the cards on the table because, if you're destined to lose, you're going to lose no matter how you play it, so you might as well be honest about it. Two life lessons in one.

John tossed up the ball and held out his arm. When the energy streamed out, it fell over his arm, slipping over and pulling back better than taffy in a machine. Surface tension pulled the energy together. Charles materialized, draped over John's arm like the rag doll he was. Aria taught him that pokemon party trick years ago. It came in handy when one didn't want to materialize on electrified ground or in this case, stand on your own two feet.

Charles was still asleep in a dream so deep a referee could have called it a faint. John snuggled the linoone close to his chest and caught the classic ball as it fell. Miraculously, it stayed in his grip. Adrenaline was a God send. So was the pokemon warming his chest with body heat. John carefully put the ball back into place and removed another. Partial coordination had returned to his fingers but they were still stiff with cold and moved slowly. He wouldn't risk dropping a pokemon in haste. Not now, not ever again. Marco materialized after Charles. He soared into existence, spanning the length of the room in his opening flight. Leave it to the megalomaniac to showboat in a life or death situation. Lopo followed less dramatically. He materialized facing John, eyes as black as his fur. The only depth within them was created by the fluorescent lights above. They glimmered across his eye the same way moonlight highlighted his ribbed armor in the dead of night. It was almost skeletal.

Marco chattered in annoyance at the lack of perches and cut across the room. He banked close to John's shoulders, saw Charles, and quickly turned away. Refusing to touch a talon to the floor, he settled on the next available spot. Lopo's head tilted as the pidgeotto perched on one horn. The houndoom quickly shook off the disrespect before it turned into offence. Marco chirped at the rejection, making sure his tail slapped Lopo in the face on his way out. He then retreated to his usual perch.

John turned a cheek into the feathered breast as Marco landed on his shoulder, staying close to his neck to avoid clutching the burn inflammation. Normally, the bird pokemon kept his distance when Charles was in John's arms. The linoone often found the need to sling himself across the opposing shoulder and admire Marco's tail. It wouldn't have been a problem if the rushing pokemon didn't like to rub his face along it so much. But right now, sharing the space was better than the dark and stormy secondary option brooding in front of them. As long as Marco's tail and crest could drape at full length, he would be happy. Especially since he was so popular with the ladies recently. One in particular, which brought John to the second nest ball on his belt.

Marco cocked his head as John held it up. Even Lopo took a moment to examine it. From appearances alone, both could tell it wasn't part of the usual gang. The shell was immaculate compared to Marco's. Quality goods and quality materials for a better quality pokemon and far superior trainer. John barely held its weight in his hand. It burned worse than his back and leg combined. _Two pidgeotto_ they had said. One of which, was none other than Athena, Liam Valenis' proud pokemon.

John would go to hell for this. Its path freshly paved with a good intention. He never should have taken the ball from the table. One didn't double cross Liam Valenis, let alone steal a pokemon from him. He could try to convince the ace that it had been an accident, but at this rate, he'd be lucky for a swift and painless execution. What a great way to repay the man who saved his life. Hiding the pidgeotto was impossible. The goon squad already analyzed his belt in the lounge. They knew Athena was here, assuming she was his. John owed it to her more than anyone else to know the situation, and until he could get her home, she was his responsibility. He took a deep breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Horns first. For the love of Rangers, John hoped it wasn't talons first.

"Alright, everybody," he announced. "Let's stay calm and offer no resistance. It's going to be a shock when she comes out."

John glanced between his pokemon before settling on Athena's ball once more. He held his breath and pressed the release. The ball sprang open. Energy spiraled upwards, growing wider with each spin before the materialization broke off with a flap of the pidgeotto's wings. Athena shrieked into existence. As if knowing the hand that released her was foreign, she took off as fast as she could, flying the length of the room in a millisecond. She banked, avoiding a near collision with the indistinguishable white walls only to plow into the glass with the ferocity of desperation. Her wings never hit the floor. She circled once more.

"Athena, please, calm down!" John yelled. It was one thing to release a bird pokemon in confinement. It was another to do it without the trust of their beloved trainer. At this rate, Athena was going to kill herself. Marco chirped but the female's shrieks were only calling for an ace that was nowhere to be found. Beak and talon scratched the ceiling and floor trying to find an escape. John ducked as she streaked by.

"I know I'm not your trainer but you have to listen, please!"

Fear turned to fury as Athena dove for the closest pokemon. Lopo ducked and John received a face full of feathers. Marco took off with another thrill, hoping the much larger and powerful female would displace her anger upon him and his crest of feathers. It was enough to free John before any damage was done. Athena rocketed away along the curved window, a _wing attack_ streaking the glass behind her. It matched several other failed attempts to break free crisscrossing the walls. Moving too fast to stop on her own, Athena threw a _gust_ out in front of her to avoid running into a corner. It pushed her away from the wall, backfired, and rushed over John and his pokemon. Lopo's ears fluttered. They pulled tight against his head as the attack passed. The houndoom had had enough. He lowered his head, crouched down, and jumped into a vertical pounce.

"Lopo, no! Don't hurt her!" John yelled.

Athena banked away from the assault with a spin. Lopo lazily missed. His horns crashed into the ceiling, blowing out one of the fluorescent lights. It sparked and flickered out, darkening the room with a nauseating strobe. The houndoom landed on the floor without a sound. He shook glass and plastic off of his coat. It _tinked_ against the floor. Athena squalled and continued her maelstrom of irritation on every surface imaginable, including living bodies. Charles hiccupped himself awake.

With a little loud music and the greasy smell of fries, John would have thought himself in a bar fight at McAlister's. Marco landed on his shoulder again, wings flapping and beak clapping, in no way helping the situation. It was practically home sweet home. John closed his eyes in a slow deep inhale. He took it in. Took it _all_ in. The time jump, kidnapping, slapping currents of air, flailing feathers, strobing lights, popping electricity, grunts, and squawks. It was up to him to make things right. John opened his eyes, set Charles on the ground, and tightened the string of his tattered pants.

Piece of cake.


	26. The Black Jewel: 1

**The Black Jewel: 1**

This was bad.

No, this was a complete and utter disaster.

Vermilion stood inside one of the booths viewing the showcase. A sound proof, escape proof, hope resistant room specially built to auction off bidding items from the Black Market. She watched, with much pain, as the spectacle currently raging within in marred her respect for the institution.

Two pidgeotto were engaged in a melee of feathers: one completely out of its mind, crashing into walls and attacking fellow party members, and the other, whole heartedly determined not to be outdone by its counterpart. Failed pokemon attacks scuffed the walls, glass, and floor, giving the illusion of broken furniture scattered across the cell. Houndoom merely stood within it all. Vermillion expected more from him after he made such a splash in the Cage, but other than accidently smashing out the ceiling light, he merely flickered in and out with the strobing fluorescence. And who could forget the linoone stumbling on the floor as bad as its trainer on festival night? All the while, the ringleader of this circus failed to control the situation, hopping from pokemon to pokemon in bandages that had frayed to dangling strips.

Vermillion leaned out of her booth to check on the other occupants. Many placeholders had left. Representatives of the Royal Jewels and other private collectors turned their backs to the showcase, engaged in conversation while waiting for this interpretive intermission to end and move on to the next item. Vermillion sharply scoffed through her clenched teeth. After all the trouble she went through to keep this dolt alive, he was going to blow it in a single showing. Her god king now nothing more than straw stuck to the bottom of a peasant's sandal from too much bullshit.

Today's Pharaoh, tomorrow's John Doe.

Everything Vermillion found attractive about this John vanished in an instant. She watched him fruitlessly try to coax his pokemon down with open palms and silent nonsensical pleas. There was no desperation, no passion, no desire to do more than play the hand fate had dealt him. Vermillion flared her lips in a hiss.

"That idiot is begging for an execution," she said. Luminesce, the sneasel, crossed her arms and looked up at her trainer, who in turn, looked down at her. "What?"

Luminesce coolly glanced back at the showcase. Vermillion followed, crossed her arms under her breasts, and pouted. She watched John trip over the linoone. He joined the pokemon on the floor, looking around as if searching for the thing that had magically put him there. Why should she care about a loser like him anyway? He wasn't worth his weight in packing peanuts. John stood up without bothering to brush himself off. His attention shifted to the raging pidgeotto, tracing their flight patterns until they fell parallel to his thoughts. He pressed his lips together. They didn't form words. They didn't form much of anything except a small hole and yet the movement in the room suddenly changed.

Vermilion exchanged her pout for a curious tilt of the head. She heard nothing. The double paned sound proof walls and glass made sure not a single scream escaped the showcase no matter the desperation behind it. But something was going on inside of that room. Something that brightened the houndoom's presence, relaxed the linoone into the floor, and stilled the wings of the male pidgeotto who landed on the trainer's shoulder.

Vermillion reached over to the monitor panel. Each booth contained one in order to tailor the buying experience to every customer. The main screen displayed real time video feed from both cameras inside of the room. Vermillion enlarged one stream. A setting change unmuted the display. Expecting a cacophony, and receiving none, she turned up the volume. All that came through was a whistle, John's whistle. Of all the times to sing. Maybe the Cage broke him after all? It wouldn't be the first time a trainer went mad after one match. There wasn't any other explanation for the strange tune tweeting through the intercom.

Musical in nature, the whistle could have been interpreted as a song if it didn't hum with the strange language pokemon calls were comprised of. John didn't miss a note. His song continued seemingly breathlessly as he glanced to his occupied shoulder. The pidgeotto seated there took flight. A few quick flaps and he came up alongside the rampaging female. To stop her would have resulted in battle, so he made no motion too. Instead, he rode the wave of his trainer's song, using the close presence of his body to smooth the female's flight into a circle around the ceiling. Vermillion never would have caught it without the hyper sensitive audio equipment but the male suddenly began to chipper and thrill in tune to the music, turning the whistle into a duet.

What were they, parrot pokemon?

The two birds slowed, turning their flight into a glide that no longer sharply banked at the corners or scratched at the walls. The resulting breeze ruffled John's hair and tattered bandages as if he stood within a meadow blowing dandelions. He forced down a smile in order to keep his lips in proper form. The notes softened, slowing the birds further and tightening the circle. The female followed her counterpart's gentle guiding presence, especially when his long feathers expanded in the declining wind speed to their full dramatic runway style glory. Vermillion quickly glanced around the booths. Without an audio cue, none of the other participants noticed. Surely, had they seen the male's display, they would have realized that this dwarfed unnatural pidgeot was actually the genetic foundation to a ribbon winning evolution.

John made a small motion. As the song softly and slowly ended, the male drifted over and landed on his shoulder. The female circled once, catching the drape of feathers over John's back before she came in for the second open shoulder. "That's it. That's it," John's voice softly crackled over the intercom. He smiled as the female landed. Both pidgeotto were too large to sit without a foot extending down a bicep but John's shoulders had the perfect lean for a foothold. They settled snuggly but comfortably. The crazy bastard didn't even flinch when those talons clenched onto his burns. He merely smiled and laughed when the larger bird tweeted approval of his own performance. Vermillion swiped off the intercom and stormed out of the booth.

That fucking idiot. No one was going to buy him at this rate, and anything without value was worthless to the Jewels. If he wasn't going to sell himself than she would. Did she have to do everything herself? He was so utterly and completely helpless. Luminesce quickly hopped into step behind her. But who the hell would want to buy a honeydew trainer like him? Nobody. Not a freakin' deacon' one.

Vermillion stopped near the far end of the showcase and looked back. John stood in the center of the room. He'd never see her at this distance with the tint of the glass but she could see him. Clear as day. Along with his two pidgeotto, linoone, and the remnants of the circus quelled within, most noticeably, the broken overhead light. It shorted out, and when it flickered on again, Houndoom suddenly appeared beside John. Another dark flicker and the canine's body went invisible. The light turned on again. The houndoom remained immobile, until it sharply turned its head in her direction. Two depthless black eyes instantly pierced the wall of glass. They disappeared just as fast, reappearing again like the collective phantom of all the pokemon souls lost within that showcase.

Luminesce suddenly readied her claws as if the protective wall had been shattered between them. Ghosts know no bounds. Vermillion grinned. Now _that_ , she could sell. The market was very, _very_ small but the demand very, _very_ high. There was only one person the polisher could think of that fit the bill.

A quick exit and several grins later, Vermillion walked into the back of a warehouse. Shipments docked, loaded, and unloaded here constantly. The Black Market had no time clock. Pallets and crates stacked the floors and walls in heaps. Packing straw littered the concrete. Despite the detrimental workload, few workers made themselves known within the maze of cargo. They scurried to and fro with the spooked caution of rattata. And with good reason.

The seviper was out.

A woman stood in front of the latest shipment of wooden crates. A long black coat formed a tail down her back. Two black steel toed boots formed its spaded point. The cape like flare to which she held herself steeped her visage in villainy. Black was the color of the day, and every day thereafter from sock to pant to shirt. Two belts kept a Berreta 92fs strapped firmly to her thigh. They matched the military grade utility belt on the hips above, customized to keep the pokebelt as locked and loaded as the gun below. Not a shred of color dared touch this viper's scales except for the chestnut hair falling over one shoulder in a short thick braid. Black as the jewel she was named after, Onyx examined the manifest. She scratched something off of the clipboard in her hands. It must have been exceptionally vile because the flat line of her rectangular glasses cut her glare with a vendetta, not a prescription.

"What?" she demanded.

Sharp and to the point as always . . . like a guillotine.

"I'm starting to think you've obtained a _future sight_ ," Vermillion purred with a saunter closer.

"Cut the bullshit."

Vermillion stopped with a clack of her heel. The words, although venomous, were not enough to paralyze. She put a hand to her waist, teasing the edge of her pokebelt, and glanced at the clipboard in the Royal's hands. "Burning the midnight oil again?" she asked.

"Hard not to when every God damned grunt in this place can't even count," Onyx began without looking up. "I've got 40 crates of shit instead of silver on my door step and someone thought it was a good idea to set them all on fire." Onyx paused and turned her cheek just enough to indicate she thought about acknowledging the polisher's presence. "You working tonight?"

"No," Vermillion answered. "I'm afraid not."

"Shame."

Onyx scratched something off of her clipboard. It cut through the words hard enough to touch the spirit of the unfortunate hand that had written them. Whoever they were, they'd be dead by morning. Luminesce's ear suddenly twitched. The sneasel glanced over to a far corner of the warehouse. Vermillion followed the gaze to a shadowy section of cargo up ahead. Instinct kept her hand on her pokebelt. That particular corner just a little _too_ dark to ignore. Something was watching them. And with more than one set of eyes.

"Why not take a little break and come with me to the Showcase?" Vermillion casually proposed despite the tension in her fingers. "I think I found something you might like." She flicked her attention onto the Jewel again, glad to have Cutter in her hair to watch her back until her eyes could return to the shadow. It moved deeper into the darkness.

"I've already cleared the manifest," Onyx informed. "There's nothing worth wiping my ass with tonight."

Considering the Showcase already sold three diamonds the size of a human eye, a holy tapestry lost to raiding two centuries ago, and a vile of charizard oil capable of blowing up a bridge or keeping one's neck perfumed for a year. . . Yeah, she wouldn't want that up her ass either. Vermillion took a few steps closer, approaching a nearby crate that had "Fragile" spray-painted over it.

"It'll do you some good," she said. The clack of her heels echoed against the bleach washed concrete. Her fingers lifted the corners of the lid. A precision _string shot_ hit Vermillion's hand from the side, slapping her wrists together and forcing the lid closed with a dusty clap. The polisher looked down at her bound wrists. Handcuffs were usually her thing, just not when they came from a pokemon.

A fanged grin swam through the loose curls that had fallen in front of Vermillion's face like the teeth of a passing sharpedo. Onyx flashed her own now that she had turned around to address the thief. The lenses of her glasses caught the light, narrowing her pupil to a mere slit. Directly behind her, the shadows of Vermillion's unease materialized. An ariados, large enough to devour a snitch in a single sitting, crawled onto the stack of crates. It hissed to a stop, using the barbs on its feet to hold a vertical position.

"I thought I told you not to touch my things," Onyx said with no less intimidation than her pokemon.

"Got you to turn around, didn't it?" Vermilion smirked. Luminesce slashed through the binds of her trainer. Shreds of webbing flew outward with the release. A _hone claws_ removed the remains. They scrapped with the lullaby of a cleaver. "Don't be coy," Vermillion firmly seduced. "You know you want to play with me."

Luminesce threw down her claws, the points gleaming like metal, and charged. Ariados spun into position with several rapid taps of its feet. Another _string shot_ spun across the warehouse. It slapped cement to the sneasel's left. Again, to the right. Neither were a mistake as Ariados sucked back a breath and spat a _spider's web_. It expanded in a spinning motion, elongating fish line wisps in its wake. Luminesce jumped into it, shredding a hole in the center with a blurring set of _fury swipes_. She landed in a spring that launched a two talon claw for Onyx's face. It stopped millimeters from the bridge of the Royal Jewel's nose. Onyx didn't even blink in the breezy wake of the sudden stop as it washed over her.

Frozen in midair, Luminesce looked at the air thin webbing wrapped tightly around her arm and body. The only reason she saw it at all was because the light slid down the threads at just the right angle. They jiggled with her slightest adjustment like the taunt wires of a bridge before quickly steadying again. This was a true _spider's web_. Onyx didn't look at the sharp claw pokemon hovering before her. She didn't look at anything except the polisher since the fight began.

"Go be bored somewhere else," she coldly advised.

Ariados crawled across the box, settling his first set of legs onto the crystalline threads he spat out earlier. They propped him over his trainer like an overhang. He hissed at the pokemon who was not sharp enough to cut through his stratagem. Luminesce folded back her ears, and when the gloating finished, barred her teeth and growled back. The webbing suddenly snapped, dropping the sneasel to the floor. Ariados dropped onto Onyx's chest as softly as snow. He skittered across her body and onto the floor in front of her after his prey. His spoked feet clacked with every tap like the hands of the bereaved writing a eulogy on a typewriter. Luminesce jumped back and Ariados stopped his pursuit. She eyed him with a rub of her arm, encouraging blood back into it. She then glanced to the side at her jewel eyed partner _shadow clawing_ at last group of threads. Cutter, the sableye shook his hand, failing to shake off the wispy residue.

Vermillion had better luck as she dusted off her pants. "Admit it, you feel a little better now," she said.

Onyx frowned only harder. "I told you," she harshly reminded. "I don't like playing your fucking games. Right now, all I want is some peace and fucking quiet." She tossed her clipboard on one of the crates. The sound sharply cut across the warehouse. Vermillion smiled. It was progress.

"Silence is exactly what I offer you," Vermillion tempted. With a motion of her hand, Cutter returned to her palm, ran up her arm, and hugged her neck again. "Although, it won't be very peaceful, but it will be heavy, _grave_ even." She polished Cutter's jeweled eye with a lick of her thumb. "It's the kind of silence spoken between dead men. But then again, that's the way you like it: sinister, haunting." She flicked her lashes at Onyx's pokebelt. " _Dark_."

Onyx crossed her arms over her chest. She was listening.

Vermillion lifted her smirk and tossed back her hair. It revealed her neck and two punctures where the fangs of the vampire of innocence had sucked her bone dry.

"Lucky for you," she continued. "I know someone who speaks the language."

A trip back through the warehouse and both Vermillion and Onyx stood side by side in front of the Showcase. They didn't have to worry about getting in anyone's way because the booths were empty. Onyx kept her arms crossed against her chest. No doubt to keep the fists from flying out. Vermillion looked through the glass with a hand on her hip. She barely kept her nails from punching through her pants like soda can lids. Why? Because she couldn't leave that _idiot_ alone for ten minutes.

John sat in the middle of the Showcase, eyes closed, cross-legged in meditation, with a pidgeotto on each shoulder. Fully content despite being on the brink of extinction, he had metaphysically planted himself in the middle of a yoga session. Lay out a carpet of grass beneath him, some trees, and a game of Frisbee and he could have been the picnic guru. To complete the scene, there was even a homeless junkie in the form of a linoone halfway rolled onto his back in an open mouth snore. Give the rushing pokemon a park bench and a paper bag, and one would've thought they were on Park Street in Mile City.

Onyx dropped her arms and walked away. "This is a waste of time," she announced.

Vermillion quickly grabbed her by the hips. "Hey, hey, hey!" she insisted before swinging the Jewel back into position. "That's because you're not looking hard enough."

Onyx reluctantly took another glance. The linoone kicked his leg. Her eyes dropped in expected disappointment. Vermillion sucked in a sharp breath. She had worked under Onyx's Black Label crime syndicate for several years but she didn't have a death wish. Pissing the Royal off was one thing. Offering her empty promises another. She needed to act fast, for John's sake as much as hers. Vermillion quickly stepped forward, put a hand to the rail, and jumped over the barricade. The bottom of the showcase platform came up to her chest. She pounded on the glass. The linoone and pidgeotto flinched awake, seemingly in the same meditative daze as their trainer. John winked open an eye. At this distance, he could see through the refractive tint. Vermillion beckoned him closer with a finger. He glanced around the room. The fucking idiot. Onyx's glare was already making Cutter tremble.

Vermillion sucked her teeth and sharply motioned for him to get off his ass and come to the glass before both of them wound up in the back alley. John got to his feet. The pidgeotto on the right flapped its wings lightly but the other hardly seemed fazed by the motion. Onyx was tempted to walk away again now that she didn't have a babysitter, but as John stood up, he revealed the houndoom lying down behind him. Both paws in front, the canine lay with a sphinx's eye, watching the door and the darker half of the room for any trace of bad luck. The curled rack of horns turned to attention as John moved away, showing a tease of his face.

Onyx slowly loosened the arms around her chest.

Houndoom caught sight of Vermillion and stood up. Broken pieces of the light fixture above prevented a direct route to the polisher so John skirted underneath the working section of light. Lopo took to the more shadowy and hazardous section. The light suddenly flickered off. It darkened the room, blacking out the canine's body except for the boney armor that caught the light still trickling in from the other side. For a blink of an eye, a skeleton walked across the showcase, finding flesh and form when the light came back on.

Onyx dropped her arms completely. Houndoom came to a stop close to the glass. He was thin, all muscle and no fat. Skinny but with an internal frame of steel. Onyx hopped over the barrier to land beside Vermillion. The polisher struggled to communicate with the man as he squatted close to the joint of glass and floor. Like it would help. Nothing escaped that cell. Not unless a bidder wanted it to.

"Alright," Onyx quickly announced. "I'll take him. What's the bid?"

Vermillion spun around so fast that it bounced her hair. "1000," she promptly answered.

"Make it 2000, cut the fat, and have them send the houndoom to my private box." Onyx turned, exited the barrier, and started down the walkway. Vermillion grabbed the rail with a bite of her lip. Lipstick transferred onto the tip of her canine. She successfully sold the houndoom but not the party, or the trainer, that went with it. No time to falter now. She quickly leaned against the rail with a casual glance at her nails.

"Will do, but I can tell you now. It'll damage the goods," she stated in a matter of fact way that had just enough attitude to catch a nerve. Onyx turned around again. Vermillion was glad she had braced herself on the rail. She silently cleared her throat, pulled back into her usual swagger, and cat walked along the side of the barrier until she returned to Onyx's side. Tonight truly would be a test of her public relations. Only Royal Jewels could sponsor a Blood Ace in the Cage, even if only to use it as a means of disposal. If she was going to sell, she would sell everything.

"You know how hounds are," Vermillion reminded with an eye to the Jewel's belt. "They won't betray their master even if they're dead. Take the hound forcefully now, and you'll have nothing but a dead dog and one helluva mess to clean up. It's a package deal, or at least, until the canine finds himself a new pack."

Altering a pokemon's loyalty was difficult but not an impossible task. Especially, if the bond in question was already starting to fray. Vermillion witnessed those weakening threads herself. Houndoom nearly killed his trainer in the Cage tonight with his own flames. One could easily mistake it for protective instinct, but she could tell that the canine was so focused on revenge that he didn't even realize that his owner was on the verge of combustion.

Should John die in a match, his pokemon could never peg Onyx responsible. The Jewel would then sell off the party and keep Houndoom for herself. It'd be an easy transfer, one that might even precede John's inevitable demise. The Cage had a way of awakening a pokemon's primal bloodlust. Houndoom was no exception. He practically boiled the blood of his own trainer just by standing next to him. Vermillion looked at the black tattered edges of John's pants. Onyx would only satisfy the canine's primal urges. And at that point, Houndoom would transfer to the Jewel's array of his own free will.

Sure, betrayal wasn't pleasant but hell, it wasn't worth John's measly pathetic little stuffed plushie life either. Die now or die later. It'd be a shame to waste those pectorals just yet.

Onyx took another glance at John as he stood up. The pidgeotto took off and began circling the room. The male put on quite a show. Those feathers were one of a kind. The female wasn't too bad herself. Onyx looked at the scratches in the glass. They were several centimeters deep. Not too bad at all. Onyx then looked at the linoone . . . someone could always use a new carpet in this business.

"Fine," she relented. "I'll take the party and sponsor him in the Cage. But, I'm not babysitting that little shit. That'll be your job."

"What!?" Vermillion showcased her own set of fangs.

Onyx turned away from the purr with a wave of her hand. "You named him, you keep him."

Damn, she knew about Big Red, Pharaoh, and the coin already? Her _spider web_ really did thread throughout the whole collection of Jewels.

Onyx walked off with a flare of her jacket. "It's your mess now," she informed. "Clean it up."

Vermillion clenched her fists in a snarl. Since when did this become her responsibility? Infuriated with the burden, she whirled upon the source of her ire. John stood watching the pidgeotto above. Judging from his loose shoulders, infuriatingly sexy concave lean to his back, and tattered appearance that made it seem as if he just ran out of a burning hospital with the young in his arms and old on his back, he was oblivious to the transaction that just happened. A transaction Vermillion now had to pay for. She cut her lips in another scoff.

If the Cage didn't kill John,

she would.


	27. The Black Jewel: 2

**The Black Jewel: 2**

John enjoyed the darkness, but it's not like his pain went away whenever he closed his eyes. His body hurt. The flaring burns on his leg and back sent him into sweats. Every rib not only throbbed, but ached from the deep freeze within the Cage. A deep tissue massage would have only added more color to his bruises and being "stiff" was being generous. Frankly, his body should have gone into shock already. _Nothing_ about the darkness changed the fact that John had been kidnapped in an era that didn't know he existed. The darkness was just a comfort, a place vast enough to hold all of his frenzied thoughts of the past, present, and future.

But not enough to sort them out.

John closed his eyes. There wasn't much to look at anyway. The grunts had moved him again, but from Cage, to showcase, to cell, the atmosphere didn't get any better. Iron bars encased the wooden stall John currently found himself in. The pile of hay he sat on was less than fresh and the distinct smell of manure wafted around the building. It was dark, with no lights except for the shred of moonlight coming in from a window just out of reach. If John didn't know any better, he would have thought himself in a pokemon holding pen.

Going from sacrifice to chattel wasn't so bad. The only problem was that he didn't have any rights. But it's not like he had any to begin with. The powers that be already took his pokemon away. He didn't make it easy when they did. The knot on the back of his head proved it. But John's headache would have been much worse if a certain familiar sultry voice hadn't intervened and reminded him that he had willing given his party up. He couldn't argue with that. Giving them up was a necessary sacrifice knowing what awaited them should he prove defiant. Marco, Charles, Lopo, and Athena were the only reasons he didn't scale the walls and take his chances right here and now.

If John was alive, there was always a chance he could get his party back. No matter how slim.

Not so much if he were dead.

Right now, all he could do was wait. John vaguely remembered someone mention something about returning in a few hours and that he should get some rest, but the pistol whip to the back of his head made it a little hazy. Like he could sleep without his pokemon anyway. Meditation was his only refuge. Having travelled once before on his own, John quickly fell into practice. The darkness became solid. Stars materialized once more in a cosmic array around him. This time, John managed to stir his fingers in the colorful clouds of space dust. Marcus would have dislocated his shoulder with a prideful slap if he knew how deep his black sheep could go now. Too bad he got a slap across the face instead.

John fluttered open his eyes. He kept his head to the side as he gently touched the red spot on his cheek. It tingled.

"About damn time," a woman snapped as she crossed her arms in the doorway of the pen. "Only took three tries."

John looked up at her. Vermillion was her name, or more likely, her call sign. It matched the bright red lipstick on her lips. Dark outlines smoothed out the transition of colors to match the darker curls and color of her hair. He didn't have to have a girlfriend to know that the woman was pissed. Her puckered lips, black lace halter top, and hip line warned him enough. She shifted and dropped a hand to her waist. John's focus dropped with it. Sharpened crimson nails tapped a second pokebelt around her waist. One friend, two nest, and two classic balls: Everyone was accounted for. John smiled and it only pissed Vermillion off further.

"Get up," she ordered. "You've been sold to the lowest and only bidder."

Sold? Guess he was right about the chattel part. John carefully stood up and didn't bother to brush the straw from his pants. It was a bad habit since childhood.

"Well, I hope it was enough to break even," he exclaimed. "I'd hate to accumulate any more debt. What time is it?" He glanced up at the window. Sometime the following morning, he guessed. Sleeping in a barn wasn't bad compared to sleeping on rocks the past two years.

Vermillion pinched an eye and jabbed a finger into his chest. It was much sharper than the slap.

"You don't get it, do you?" she threatened. "You've got yourself neck deep in some serious shit and the only reason you're still alive is because of me."

John figured as much. From Boss Ruby to Mammoth and then that weird glass room, she was the only one who cared to follow him thus far. She was also the one who turned a four to one struggle into a single knock out during his latest spurt of resistance.

But why did everyone always assume he was joking? Maybe the _confusion_ did scramble his brains a bit, but this was the only way he knew how to be. If he wasn't being honest, than he wasn't being himself, and there was no point living in any timeline if that wasn't the case. John kept his smile and looked Vermillion square in the eye.

"I know," he said. "And thank you for taking care of my pokemon."

Vermillion snarled and slapped him again, this time, from the other side. _That_ John deserved but he didn't regret it. If his pokemon weren't strapped around that black leathered suicide vest set to go off if anyone touched it without permission, it was likely that his belt would have been stripped, sold, or stolen by the lesser members of society. He had to express his gratitude at least once. Besides, one thing he realized was that _here_ , away from everything he knew, there was no risk to the timeline. That was more than enough to be thankful for.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Sensei always said that I'm too blunt for woman." He offered his hand. "I hope you'll take good care of me."

Vermillion pinched her eyes again. "Are you that thick in the head?" she asked, "or did I slap the sense right out of you?" She pulled out a knife from her thigh, flashed it open, and held it up to John's throat. He leaned back lightly to avoid the point.

"This isn't the League, _idiot_ ," she informed. "You're going to battle in the Cage until you're dead as a duskull. You're nothing but an appetizer for the next Blood Ace in the bracket. I had to sweat just to get a sponsor to even look at you."

"I'm grateful," John answered. "But why help someone like me?"

Vermillion's lips pursed ever so slightly. She curved the blade to a point under his chin.

"Get one thing and one thing straight," she growled. "I'm not your friend, your buddy, or your savior." She leaned in closer so that she whispered in his ear. "I'm the one that makes problems _disappear_." John winced as she drew a drop of blood. "For good."

Vermillion pulled away. "Now, are you going to be a good boy, or is there a problem?"

John swallowed a new life lesson dryly down his throat and nodded.

"Good. Now, come with me. You smell like a fucking grimer. If I bring you to Onyx smelling like that, we'll both get the ax."

"Onyx?" John asked.

"Your sponsor. And I'd watch that tongue of yours in front of her. She's scarier than me." Vermillion returned to the gate and motioned for John to take the lead. "Congratulations, Pharaoh. You're officially in the running for Cage Champion."

John wasn't sure if he should be overjoyed or terrified. A tournament with no referees and no rules sounded like blood sport. No doubt one of the many veins that fed into the heart of the underground. Fighting like that went against everything he was ever taught at the dojo. Every virtue learned flipped into a vice. Kill or be killed, or at least, that's how Vermillion explained it as they travelled out of the barn like holding area into the makings of some sort of extravagant compound. From what John gathered, it was all part of some larger complex. Most of it, like the tunnels and offices he arrived in, were buried underground, linking the Black Market to every gang banger, grunt, and despicable soul in the city. Satellites couldn't track what they couldn't see and gathering incriminating evidence wasn't easy six feet under.

For anybody.

The first place Vermillion brought him to was a men's locker room. Even villains needed somewhere to clean off the blood after a fight. Kicking open the door, she shoved John into a shower and threw a soap bar at his face. Reflex, not anticipation, saved John from a broken nose. He stripped and disposed of the mangled remains of his dojo life into the trash can. Vermillion then set them on fire. Gone forever. Much like his prospective future.

The locker room was state of the art. High water pressure, stainless steel, ceramic tile, John might have enjoyed the warm bathing sensation if Vermillion hadn't placed herself along the wall directly beside the curtain. A single tilt of her head threatened to send him hiding into the curtain. He did. Several times. John resorted to the lesser evil and faced the inside of the shower. Keeping his back to her was a dangerous move but he wasn't going to risk _exposure_ to a predator like her. Especially, when Vermillion threatened to come in and finish the job if she caught a single whiff of displeasure from him. It was the fastest and most extensive washing John had ever undertaken in his life. He might have even peeled off a layer of skin.

When it sounded like he was finished, Vermillion threw open the curtain, spurring John to snatch up the lower half for concealment. Luckily, she threw a towel in his face because he didn't have the hands to catch another soap bar. A new set of clothes awaited him. How they got there was just as much of a mystery as most of John's current predicament. Luckily, his sponsor wasn't a fan of the dramatic. John pulled a thin black fitted long sleeves shirt over his head. It matched the athletic calf length leggings below. Both fit smoothly under a pair of black and silver shorts that cut off at the knee.

For a moment, John mistook himself for a professional athlete, not a pokemon trainer fighting for his life. Vermillion slapped him on the butt for added effect, just to watch him jump. She then took the lead as they departed for another destination. Back in general population, John received several looks from bystanders, although not as many now since he wasn't swathed in flaming rags. Half also went straight to his escort. Her walk alone drew more stares than John could count. They would have given anything to trade places with him for a front row seat to _that_ show. John did everything he could to ignore it. He followed his pokebelt, not the one wearing it . . . Mostly.

Their next stop landed them at the health clinic. The doctor worked with the gentle grace of stepping on a pineco. Keeping brawlers, pokemon, and trainers alive and in one piece after near death experiences took talent, not tenderness. But the doctor knew what he was doing. He by-passed the network of bruises along John's body, most well on their way to healing. Every cut and scrape still fresh from the fight received a slathering of antibiotic and bandage, if needed. Both burns received a special salve used for treating pokemon based injuries and the doctor went so far as to perform a comprehensive exam. He tested heart rate and pulse. High but healthy. Clipped finger nails and muttered over callouses. John blushed and pulled his hands away. He now understood what Vermillion meant by being auctioned off. He felt like a painting under restoration soon to be hung up in a collector's art gallery.

With an all clear from the doctor, Vermillion ordered a full prescription. The first air compressed needle filled John's veins with addiction forming pain medication. The second lit up his nervous system with steroids. A few minutes later and John felt like he just went a round with a healing machine. It was a dangerous feeling. Far better to feel pain and know exactly how far one's body could go, rather than push beyond limitations and beyond repair. Sensei warned him of the dangers, constantly. Mostly because John's raging spirit had a tendency of taking things too far on its own anyway. John knew he was likely to kill himself should his body not tell him otherwise.

If only Sensei could see him now.

Polished to perfection, the duo departed once more. The doctor didn't even glance at the door when they left. Another simple transaction, nothing more. Like fixing a machine on an assembly line. Vermillion, however, glanced over her shoulder as they left. John's presence suddenly much larger and imposing now that he stood at full height, without defect, disability, or disorientation. She quickly made him take the lead.

John did as he was told. He followed her directions until they finally entered the largest pokemon training facility he had ever seen. Considering it was the only official practice facility he had ever been in aside from the leafy backs of a few mountains, it was a trainer's dream. Vaulted ceilings scaled the room to cathedral sized proportions. Aerial training rings and obstacles traced back to a time board mounted on the wall. On ground level, various terrain zones offered agility and flexibility simulations. Fresh targets, full scale dummies, and strengthening equipment of every kind filled every corner. Pokemon trainers were worth more in the underground than out in the free world.

"Would you close your mouth already?" Vermillion hissed as they walked through the facility towards its center. "You act like you've never been in a P.T. room before. Who the hell taught you how to fight pokemon anyway?"

John decided to keep that answer to himself, especially when something snarled and an electrified crackle followed. Vermillion and John stopped as they came around an exercise block. A mightyena stood in front of a practice dummy. It spat a metal head from its mouth. Exposed wires sticking out of its neck matched those still sparking from within the shoulders of the dummy. John stiffened. Short mane, small paws, and the ability to coolly destroy an opponent without embellishment, the mightyena was a female. A matriarch. Much like its trainer. Clad in black to match the canine, she kept herself as fortified as a S.W.A.T. agent. The only thing missing was the bullet proof vest. Maybe. Mightyena returned to the woman's side.

Vermillion walked over to do the same. "Look alive," she said. "You're about to meet your maker."

John already knew her name: Onyx, not just a Royal Jewel but a trainer capable of petting an alpha pokemon without bothering to look down at it. "Let's get one thing straight," Onyx declared. "I don't give a damn about you or who you are. From here on out, your name is Pharaoh and when I say fight, you fight."

"And if I don't?" John suddenly asked. He didn't know why, only that the words just sort of slipped out. Resistance, maybe?

Vermillion's back sharply arched in a silent gasp. Onyx flicked her wrist. Mightyena charged. John stepped back into what some would have thought as retreat, but to the observant, a change in position. Mightyena jumped into his chest. The two fell to the ground. Human on the bottom. Pokemon on the top. John locked both forearms in an "X" across the canine's lower neck to keep the clapping jaws from hitting their mark. His elbows flared outward, keeping both paws bowed so that Mightyena couldn't catch a claw without losing her position. The moment she did, John would get enough of a weighted angle to throw her off and onto her back.

Eye to eye, neither broke their gaze, even when drool splattered across John's cheek. It wasn't the first time he was pounced on, and surly not his last. Besides, the pokemon on top of him wasn't nearly as dark as the empty slot on his pokebelt. Vermillion carefully relaxed and put a hand to her hip. The attack had turned into a stalemate. A coward would have run. A fighter would have delivered a blow and an ace would have released a pokemon before they even collided. So what exactly did that make John?

"He's a fucking idiot," Onyx told Vermillion with an adjustment of her glasses as if answering the thought. Vermillion glanced to her with a shrug of her shoulders.

"I guess you won't have to worry about him lasting long in the Cage then," she quipped.

Onyx glanced at her with a narrow eye but the polisher had already turned away with a purse of her lips. The jewel sharply whistled. "Ibis," she commanded.

The dark pokemon immediately quieted but did not unfold her ears. She looked at the human underneath her might, back at her trainer, then down at the meat bag again before she jumped off and trotted over to Onyx's side once more. John pushed onto an elbow and rubbed his arm. The canine's vocalizations had numbed down to the bone. A previous wound reopened somewhere during the fight. He couldn't see the blood but he could feel it stick his shirt to his skin. Damn steroids made it pump out faster. John stood up again. From here on out, he would trust in Vermillion's advice.

"Show me your houndoom," Onyx then demanded. John looked at the mightyena, Onyx, and the similarities between the two. So that's why she bought him at auction. Of course it was. Canines were her preference. All trainers had one. Trainers also carried pokemon. Except John. He looked to Vermillion. She pondered the gaze for a moment until she realized what he wanted.

"Oh, _right_ ," she said. Her fingers clasped his pokebelt buckle and paused. Those heavy black lashes framing her eyes lowered over John. Their weight crushed his heart. Without speaking, they both realized that this exchange was a cross-roads. All she had to do was hand the belt over to Onyx and it would be over. The Royal would add another jewel to her collection. Vermillion knew exactly what ball Lopo was in. Forget the tournament, forget even seeing a glimpse of the sun again, she already had in her hands, everything Onyx wanted from him.

 _Everything_.

Vermillion unfastened the belt and threw it across the room.

John caught it in a flurry of surprise. His heart pounding faster than anything Ibis' could arouse. Vermillion lifted her chin lightly and kept her smirk as sharp as her eyes. "I wouldn't keep her waiting," she said.

John agreed. He snapped on the belt and unfastened the friend ball. He rolled it a few times while glancing between the women. It was cold between his fingers. Lopo materialized with a tap of the release. He appeared in perfect posture. Only a small swish of the tail indicated that he was alive. Onyx shifted her weight. Vermillion knew it to be a squirm of excitement. Ibis perked her ears and glanced up at her master. When she looked at Lopo again, her ears fell flattened. The only thing that came up was her hackles. Ibis stepped into a snarl. Lopo traced the smell of John's sweat to her paws and lowered his head. His tail swung to a stop. Onyx lifted in a devilish grin.

John felt the escalation but not even his lips were fast enough to stop it from boiling over. The two canines were already on a collision course with one another. Ibis pounced, jaws wide. Lopo leapt up to meet her, horns first. "Stop!" John yelled.

The houndoom's body vanished. Ibis fell through the disappearing image. She landed with a slide that spun her around to face the two women. Her bark sharply alerted them to the phantom that suddenly flickered into shape behind them. Onyx spun around in a wide eyed stop of her heart. Vermillion jumped to the side with Cutter on her shoulder. When the women settled, nobody moved. Every eye watched the houndoom, the god who had just weighed their fates in a single act of judgement. Lopo looked between Vermillion, Onyx, Ibis, and finally John. The trainer left behind shakily relaxed when their eyes met. He was fine.

For now.

No longer on the offensive, Lopo glanced at the person nearest to him, the one who didn't retreat from his appearance. Onyx's heart pounded in her chest. He could hear it. But it was thrill, not fear that kept her silent. Her eyes trembled with each trace of his body. And when he turned his great rack of horns to look at her, her fingers twitched at the thought of reaching out and touching them. Ibis galloped over with a fresh snarl. Onyx quickly threw out her hand.

"Enough," she ordered. Ibis ducked low with a tuck of her tail, sliding to a stop at her master's heel. The tension that followed was quickly broken by a vibrating buzz. For the first time since the houndoom appeared, Onyx looked away and pulled a phone out of her pocket. She read through the message, tucked it away again, and withdrew Ibis while heading for the exit.

"Not going to stay and play?" Vermillion asked with a glance over her shoulder.

"Some of us have work to do," Onyx snapped before she disappeared out of the door and slammed it shut behind her.

Vermillion puckered her lips. "No fun."

She glanced back to something just as dreary as the Jewel's sense of humor, the houndoom standing next to her. Lopo returned the glance, dropped his interest as pointedly as his tail, and walked to meet John who was currently on his way to join them. When they met, John patted the canine on the head. The tightness of his expression, however, indicated that he'd rather scold the canine. Must have been afraid to. Not that Vermillion blamed him. For a moment there, she wasn't quite sure what the houndoom was capable of. Only that it wasn't good. Just how in the world did a helpless trainer like him come into possession of a pokemon such as that? It was like giving an angsty teenager a handful of napalm. Giving Onyx custody of the canine might just save them all from a rather violent and explosive death . . .

"Listen up," Vermillion ordered with a swing of her hips in the pair's direction. "Your next fight is tomorrow night. A double team match. Two on two. We booked this entire P.T. for five hours. After that, it's back to the barnyard. Expect the same routine tomorrow. I don't want to hear any lip or the next shower you take won't be on your own." John blushed. Vermillion turned away and went for the exit. "I'd make the most of it if I were you."

John quickly lifted his head. "Wait, where are you going?" he called.

"I've got better things to do than act as your wet nurse," Vermillion called back. "If you get lonely, the guards will be happy to rough you up a bit. Oh, and FYI, they have orders to shoot you if you set a toe outside this room before time's up."

John looked around the gym. "But what am I supposed to do?"

"I recommend letting your pokemon fight their own battles." She lazily waved. "Figure it out!"

The door slammed shut once more. Somehow, John got the feeling that he was being ditched. A team battle? He glanced around the room again. The panorama ended on the broken dummy machine. The illuminated statistical display beside it blinked with an error that read: "System Unable to Register Entry. Exceeds Parameters."

So that was it then? A sponsor with a DEFCON 1 threat level, and a coach with a bad habit of forgetting the players. John looked down at Lopo.

"Looks we're on our own for this one," he said.


	28. The Black Jewel: 3

**The Black Jewel: 3**

"Benny, how's it look in there?"

It was hard to hear Liam's transmission between the squabbling of the concession stand and the music blasting through the subwoofers. Mr. Bentley touched his hand to his ear as if it could break through the giggling of the escorts lined up with their clients around the dark corners of the Ring House.

"I can't believe you two would even agree to fight in a place like this," he replied through the receiver hidden in the collar of his jacket. "If I pick something up, I'm blaming you."

"You know I'd go if I could," Liam buzzed back through the communicator. "Marcus, too, but we'd be executed on sight if they caught us back in the House. And remember, John isn't a part of this. That's why we're here."

Bentley dropped his hand from his ear to avoid a particularly nasty game of dice thrown between a pile of guns, money, and drug packs. Eventually, he found a safe spot to stand that didn't risk his personal hygiene. The vantage point wasn't great, but it was enough for a decently expansive view of the warehouse turned arena. Spectators lingered around the Ring platform. Two contenders were preparing for a match in their respective quarters. Neither were the fighter Mr. Bentley had hoped to find. Looking up, a whole network of catwalks floated above. Most were for maintenance on the lights and other staging equipment. It would have been the perfect spot to set up some binoculars. Or a sniper scope.

But the stage hands silently working above were not contract killers. Those professionals occupied the VIP loft halfway between heaven and hell. They stood at the railing of the second floor open balcony, holding glasses instead of bottles and cigars instead of cigarettes. Acknowledging the crowd below was beneath them in every way imaginable. Low class gamblers and drunkards were considered mere scavengers circling around the carrion left by their prized fighters. They were sponsors. Bentley could see it now, how Liam's consorting had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Fight a few rounds, make some money, and show off to a couple of fat cats too lazy to swish their tails. But cats still had their claws, and catnip excited just as much as it soothed. And for this kind of party, cleaning up blood was much harder than fruit punch.

Bentley glanced back down at the populace around him. No one cared to notice his presence let alone his overly observant eye. With a tattered jacket, no jewelry, and passive avoidance to anything and everything moral or respectable, he was practically invisible. Add a splash of beer and the perfume of one day too many without a shower and he would have been one of their own. Bentley touched his hand to his ear again, this time with a turn to keep the motion aimed at the grungy decorum and not the 350 lbs. 6'5 bouncers stationed around the House.

"I don't see him," he informed.

The only thing more dangerous than the diseases he might contract on the cocktail tables were the bouncers. They monitored passageways, stairwells, entryways, and even threaded their intimidation into the crowd at various congregation points. As typical lowlife muscle for hire, they lacked both color and personality except an expression that had "Piss Off" permanently furrowed into their brows. Suit and leather jackets concealed stashes of readily available weapons and pokemon should trouble break out within the crowd. As far as Bentley could tell, they were the only ones packing heat. A thorough and less than cordial pat down at the door insured that.

One of the Bouncers shifted this way. Bentley tucked into the collar of his jacket and grabbed the closest abandoned beverage, skirting his gaze and swaying lightly like the other junkies waiting for their next fix of violence. The bouncer passed without a glance. Despicable. And they called themselves security? Bentley straightened out of his ripped jacket with a gentleman's tug to his collar, but quickly remembered his disguise and used the motion to shift it out of place. Damn Liam and his prideful swagger. It was contagious.

"John's not here," Bentley softly but firmly continued. "Once Ruby found out he wasn't the fighter they wanted, they probably killed him. You know that, right?"

"We're not jumping to any conclusions, Benny."

"What's the word on Hell Raiser?" Marcus suddenly interjected from a third line.

Bentley casually set himself along the far wall across from the concession stand. "He's been removed from the bookie list after a no show, but speculation is still pretty hot. Popular rumor suggests he O.D.'d on steroids."

" _What!?_ "

"Don't worry, we know your talent is a natural gift," Liam reassured.

Bentley couldn't resist a grin. Movement by the tunnel connecting the Ring House to the Cage House caught his attention. The builders had connected the two buildings with a walkway to promote cash flow should one side fair better than the other any particular night. It was a favorable political gesture between Jewels. And tonight, the flow shifted towards the Cage. Bentley stuck his hands in his pockets and walked a little closer. The fight in the Ring was just about to start. Most people would be moving in, not out. One of the House regular's shared Bentley's curiosity. The man spoke to a cohort nearby.

"But the fight is just about to start," he complained.

"We smash people's faces in all the time," the other replied. "Besides, they just announced a new Blood Ace running for Champion in the Cage tonight."

"Is he any good?"

"Who knows, but I think it's the same guy who blew up Mammoth the other night."

"Shit, really?"

"Yeah, so get off your ass and come on, we might be able to catch the last half."

"If it's not a total blow out."

" _Heh_ , if it's anything like the last one, you better hope it is."

The snickering faded into the tunnel as the two joined a small crowd heading into the fairway. Bentley looked back at the Ring. With no reason to stay, he fell in line with the stream shifting towards the Cage House. The debut of a new competitor wasn't much to go on, especially one that didn't seem John's type, but it was something. Bentley pulled down his hat a little farther and lowered his voice now that the booming bass had weakened between buildings.

"I'm going to take a look around and double back," he explained to the angels watching from above.

"Roger that," they replied.

The radio quieted. It was a good thing too because Bentley wouldn't have heard anything anyway. A roar echoed down the tunnel from the Cage House. The music was just as loud as before but the cheers and taunts of the crowd dialed the beats down to white noise. Spectators flooded the ground floor. They screamed and bounced with the ferocity of fanatics. Every square inch of cement became prime real estate in the frenzy. The only thing missing from their enthusiasm was face paint and foam fingers. At its center, spotlights illuminated the Cage. A cannon of air burst through the bars, rushing through the crowd better than an adrenaline shot. Shrieks and shouts followed. Bentley held his breath. In his surprise, his thoughts slipped out on his breath.

"S _hit_."

"What, what is it?" Liam crackled in. Bentley hesitated. There wasn't a camera attached to his collar. Liam wouldn't know if he didn't tell him . . .

"Spit it out!" Marcus demanded.

Bentley ran his eyes over the scene, debating as to whether it was more merciful to rip off the band aid or peel it instead. "Your boy," he said. "He's in the Cage . . . and Athena's with him . . ."

A brief buzzing silence filled the transmission.

". . . Are they winning?"

It was hard to tell.

John crouched low to the floor, against the bars to avoid the pidgeotto crisscrossing one another in a figure eight like pattern above. In an opposing appeal, his counterpart swatted at the birds whenever they got too close. The last one left a bright red streak across his dominant palm. Blood splashed across the white platform and the crowd cheered. Athena must be pissed. As she should be, although it didn't seem like it was because of the kidnapping. Both pidgeotto cawed and squawked in frustration at a ninjask buzzing in and out of visibility within the airspace of the Cage. Tracking a nearly invisible enemy kept their wings full, so they ignored its partner down below. Ground locked, a trapinch patiently waited for his chance to strike. Everything had to land eventually . . . and he'd be waiting when they did. The _bide_ enhancing his jaws grew stronger with every passing flight.

Marco sharply banked into another aggressive pass at Ninjask. A _quick attack_ flattened his colored headdress against his back. It hit nothing but open air as the bug pokemon darted across the Cage. Marco was fast but it meant nothing without a target to strike. He chirruped angrily in a flyby over Trapinch. The moving rainbow brightly colored the ant pokemon's small beady black eyes. Athena attacked next. She glossed her feathers in a _wing attack_ , spinning to extend her attack radius. Only silvery white air cut through her spiral.

The sharp pitch of a _screech_ shattered the rhythm of the dome. It passed by Marco's ear as the pidgeotto soared by. He flinched and dropped into a flat line across the dome. Ninjask appeared in the blind spot above him. He attempted to ruffle the bird's feathers in a _fury cutter_ but a _gust_ from Athena suddenly pushed the twin sickles upward in a miss. Marco rode the invisible current back into formation. He recovered faster than his opponent. As if hit by an air cannon, Ninjask rolled sideways in the air from the attack. Athena enforced the blow with a _tackle_. He bounced off of her shoulder better than a dodgeball on the hood of a semi-truck. But that truck was too powerful and fast to stop. While Ninjask rocketed away in recoil, Athena ran into the Cage wall. Dazed with the impact, she fell and caught one leg between the bars. The sudden jolt swung her downwards. Marco screeched. Hearing the call, Athena immediately tucked in her wings, lifted her head, and felt the breeze of Trapinch's _bide_ as it snapped shut on the dust of her fall.

Shaken, Athena panicked to free her leg. It came loose, and she took to the air once more, but her wings pounded as fast as her heart. She'd stroke herself into a mistake that couldn't be taken back. John leapt to his feet. A long whistle escaped his lips. It rose above the blood pumping in everyone's ears. Both pidgeotto took to it just as quickly. Athena came up behind Marco and rode on his wake. He filled it with the traces of a _gust_ to support her glide. She calmed under its pressure, regaining mind and body in order to distance herself and leave energy traces of her own. The invisible ring of _gusts_ compounded over one another. The pidgeotto grew faster and smoother, riding one another's wake until their flights combined. Together, they created a single powerful ring of energy that stretched into a funnel, and ultimately, a tornado.

Billows of air whipped across the warehouse. Solo cups, napkins, and hair extensions flew up in the storm. Safety chains rattled. Hands secured hats and glasses. A hoverer like Ninjask couldn't risk being carried off by the currents. He shifted into the eye of the storm but even then, its windy pupil was too small to escape without compromise. Despite lightning fasts bursts of speed, every jerk and dart became visible. There was not enough airspace to slip into invisibility. The crowd surged in excitement. It was one more body to add to the piling carnage. Ninjask rewarded them with more. Compensating for his loss in visibility, the bug pokemon split into a _double team_. Combined with the duplicates of inexplicably fast motion, four ninja pokemon now buzzed within the center of the tornado.

A single whistle addressed every one of them.

Marco and Athena tightened their tornado into a steadily closing ring. Ninjask and his clones pulled closer, tightening their grouping into one nearly solid form. Athena's _keen eye_ caught the dark overlap of solidarity. She chirped and the noose tightened even further. Ninjask dropped his clones. He wasn't strong enough to break through the walls of the swirling maelstrom but the top and bottom were open. All he had to do was dodge at the right moment when the birds broke formation to attack.

The pidgeotto closed in. Ninjask made his move. Marco shifted below. Athena, above. They didn't have to see Ninjask or predict which way he would go when they covered both ends. Ninjask's exoskeleton cracked. It split open against Athena's _wing attack_ as he tried to rise up and out of the slicing ring. Pieces of translucent wing caught the light. Ninjask bounced against the ground in a spray of shell and bodily fluids that spurred the crowd into a deafening cheer.

John held out his arms to the side and called back his pokemon. They each landed on an arm, chests heaving but eyes bright and talons sharp. Bentley couldn't help but feel the rush of delight in the victory. He knew exactly what Athena was capable of. Her strength wasn't a question, the motivation behind it was. For her to follow such guided instruction, she must have reached some level of trust between her, Marco, and John. Liam's new found ' _friends'_ were one thing. Athena's, another entirely. She didn't fight for just anybody.

"It looks good so far," Bentley reported in, "but it's not over yet."

Trapinch's time had finally come. He waited in the middle of the cage without sound and without movement. Those two black soulless eyes watched the three recuperate before him. Which was fine by him, he liked to _bide_ his time until the opportune moment. Besides, it was John's move. Trapinch was too slow to try and take the first punch. There was no hole for him to hide in here, but he would wait just the same. For as long as it took. John looked between his birds. He waited a moment longer, stalling to give them as much of a break as he could manage before security caught on and prodded him in the back with an electrified baton to get going again. But every eye was on him. He managed to captivate the entire House. As long as he moved, however slowly, he'd be alright. John extended his arms out at his sides and whistled a tweet. Marco and Athena replied with their own. Both shifted off of his shoulder and onto their respective arms.

John slowly aimed them out in front of him. He clenched his hands into fists and bounced the birds back into flight. They took to the air easily, a moment's rest all that they needed to bank into a glide around the Cage once more. It was much lighter than before. No need to waste energy in speed when the foe was immobile. But it was a tough match up. The target was small wielding hardened skin. His attacks included a set of jaws that took up most of his body. John preferred to keep the battle long distance. He tweeted again in a more impressive play of tongue and lip.

Marco dove low with a _gust_ on his tail. It blew over Trapinch, stirring little more than a blink. Athena dove next. She pumped her wings into sudden reverse, flipping upward at the last moment to throw her _gust_ as hard as she could. The cannon pounded Trapinch, causing his head to sway but he was too close to the ground to tip over. The birds took to their circle again. If John wanted to win he would have to close the distance before his pidgeotto ran out of stamina.

The crowd quieted now that the spilt blood was scabbing over. The air pressure returned to normal, giving spectators a chance to hit the bookies, bar, or restrooms. Judging from the smell, some had skipped that last option in order to stick around for the action. Bentley shimmied his way deeper into the House. He stepped up onto the concrete base of a support beam to stand above the crowd. Several others had done the same and the bouncers took no notice of them, as long as they kept as silent and still as the metal beside them.

Athena broke out of her routine for another pass. The crowd lifted. She cut down from the far edge, tilting her body sideways. A _wing attack_ rushed across her feathers. The invisible blade cut over the top of Trapinch's back, too fast for his top heavy head to catch. He slumped into the floor. The hit was good. Athena shrieked and Marco quickly capitalized on her success and strategy. He landed on the ant pokemon's back in a full array of talons. Trapinch slumped even further against the weight. With wings extended, Marco's body slowed to a stop in the drag before he crossed into Trapinch's zone of attack.

His tail feathers, however, did not.

The sudden stop brushed Marco's long feathers ahead of him. The ribbon tips uncurled beyond the safe zone. Trapinch turned his jaws and snapped shut by the time Marco even realized what had happened. One 180 degree yank pulled Marco forward. Trapinch clamped down onto the nearest wing before the tail feathers even dropped from his mouth. If it wasn't for the buffer of the pidgeotto's tail, the bone would have broken. Marco shrieked. And that was before Trapinch even started shaking his head with everything he had.

John screamed. It was almost as feral as the attack before him. No one heard it over the deafening roar of the crowd memorized by the violence of the attack. Only the whistle of Athena's _brave bird_ cut through the savagery as she tore across the Cage in a dead on collision with the ant pokemon. Propelled with a _gust_ under each wing, the power of the strike tripled. It popped the struggle on the floor in a fraction of a second. Marco, Athena, and Trapinch spilled along the platform in a wash of scales and feathers. Athena got to her feet first. Her plumage bristled with rage. Both wings arched out beside her at full length. She jumped once at the recovering Trapinch, daring the predator to roll back onto his feet.

Off to the side, Marco attempted to get up, lost his strength, and sprawled out across the floor. Athena tucked down her wings and hopped over to him in a gasp of a chirp. He pulled one wing back in. Not the other. She chirped again, hopping to a new position closer to his head. Marco refused to look at her, even when she bent low to nuzzle his beak with her own. Humiliated and shamed, he didn't move. Athena stopped and silently looked at him a moment before she too laid on the floor beside him. It was a bird's most vulnerable position, a ritual generally exhibited by courting males. She shifted her head close to his. A soft, throaty call resembling a purr quieted the world around them. There was no fight. Not anymore. Not if she couldn't do it alongside him.

Athena laid there and waited. Marco breathed heavily, refusing to look at her until his heart felt as if it would break. And it did. Love for a bird did not come like a human's. It came quickly, almost instantaneously, and lasted for a life time. They were one of the few types of pokemon that were star-crossed. Marco shifted his head to hers, touched his beak to her own, and closed his eyes in a weaker but still as resounding purr.

The seal was made. They would be mates for life.

Across the platform, Trapinch finally managed to get on his feet. One side of his chest awkwardly concaved into his body. It was completely smashed into disrepair. Internal damage was likely. But he was still alive. And the Cage was not merciful. Neither was Athena. Fueled by the cosmos, she quickly flipped onto her feet. Stirred by her devotion, Marco also stood. He couldn't fly, and she wouldn't without him, but they could still fight. Athena hopped in as much of a sprint as a bird pokemon could manage. Marco swiped his functional wing in one last _gust_. He spun away, but for what he missed, the Cage House would remember forever. Athena lifted in the _gust_. It pushed her into a pounce that landed on Trapinch's body, and from head to back, her talons popped through his red tire tough skin all the way to her scales.

Straight from the ground in a spectacular show of muscle, Athena picked Trapinch up into the air. She circled the Cage, dragging him across the bars like a stick on a fence before she threw the ant at his trainer's feet. Yeah, that was one of Liam's pokemon alright. A second bright red "X" buzzed to life underneath the opposing trainer's call sign: _King Pin_ was what they called him. Pinhead was more like it. The match was John's. The crowd didn't seem to care either way, as long as the match was bare and bloody.

With it now over, a large chunk of people suddenly migrated towards the Ring. Bentley kept his position on the pole stand to avoid the rush. He'd have to vacate the position now that the excitement was over, but he did have time for a glance at the VIP balcony before he left. High value personnel lined the rail. Several stood out above others, but the most being two women in the middle. One leaned over the rail and put two fingers in her mouth in a sharp whistle. With that poster worthy posture, _she_ should have been the one receiving cat calls. Her eyes were on the victor. And with that kind of stare, if they hadn't met already, they would soon. And for a choir boy like John, he'd need an exorcism to cleanse himself of that devil.

The woman in black beside her was much more disconcerting. She too had her eyes on John, but the look of disgust was so profound that she turned away to save herself from going blind. Maybe she lost a bet? Maybe she sponsored King Pin and lost more in this match than her title ace and his party? Her reasons didn't matter, only that she left in a way where nobody noticed, not even her bountiful escort. Bentley looked back at the Cage. John had collected his pokemon by hand and now stood in front of the gate. He had Marco in his arms and Athena perched on his shoulder as it opened. Two escorts blocked the way. They didn't move until John withdrew his pokemon and handed them over.

"Sounds like it's over," Marcus chimed in from inside the wire.

"And our Johnny Boy?" Liam asked.

"Alive," Bentley answered. He watched the grunts flank John and walk him back into the tunnel. Looking back up at the balcony, the woman in black had disappeared. "For now."


	29. The Black Jewel: 4

**The Black Jewel: 4**

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

Vermillion stormed down the corridor. Running wasn't appropriate for a predator like her. She preferred to stalk rather than to chase. The game was much more fun that way. But right now, there was an itch in her heel that turned even the Polisher's catwalk into a powerful stride through the underground compound. Two grunts had whisked John away immediately after the match. Which was odd considering they had strict orders to keep him off to the side until she arrived to relieve them. Even grunts knew better than to take fresh meat away from a carnivore. They must have received new orders, and from someone far more imposing than herself. Few held such an honor.

Vermillion cursed herself for watching the fight from the VIP balcony. She should have stayed on the Cage Floor with the other coaches. Everything stayed hot and raw down there, just the way she liked it. Peering through a jaded eyeglass was more of a sponsor's delicacy. And speaking of sponsors, wouldn't you know that Onyx was nowhere to be seen during John's spiriting away?

Vermillion lost sight of John the moment they entered the tunnel but her sense of direction was impeccable. As a thief, she knew her way through the dark, spatially and metaphorically. Tracking down those who don't want to be found was an art she excelled at. Especially, when it involved a personal investment. Vermillion rounded a corner of the white walled maze beneath the Cage House. Down the corridor, a man stood in front of a door. Heavy set, tall, and intimidating, he wasn't there by mistake. A tyrogue stood beside him with just as much purpose. Something inside that room wasn't to be disturbed. _Bingo_.

Vermillion sharply entered the hallway. To the guard's credit, he didn't flinch when she stopped in front of him. "Move," she commanded.

The guard cast her a confident look. "No can do," he replied. "I've got orders from the Jewel herself. Nobody in until she's is finished."

So Onyx _was_ inside.

"Get out of my way," Vermillion said again.

The guard leaned forward with a smile. "Not even for you, doll face."

Vermillion softened her scowl to a smirk. So he wanted to play games, did he? He had no idea who he was playing with. She swung a hip closer and tilted her head in pleasurable examination. Two fingers walked up the man's chest. They curled around his shoulder and pulled the Polisher closer so that the two came chest to breast.

"Not many men have the balls to tell me no," Vermillion whispered in a hot breath. "And when they do." Her gaze sharpened faster than a switchblade. "They don't keep them." Vermillion suddenly grabbed the guard by the back of the head, pulled him down, and kneeded him so hard in the groin that he instantly became a unic. He fell forward in a wheeze. One shove behind the head accelerated his decent into another kneecap. Vermillion felt the cartilage collapse in the blow. She shifted her grasp onto the man's collar and rolled him over her shoulder.

He landed with a heavy _thud_. Blood gushed out between his fingers from a permanently broken nose. Tyrogue followed in a similar state. He fell face forward into the blood of his trainer with a sableye on his back. Cutter chattered with a wiggle of his clawed fingers. Vermillion looked down and he looked up. The light made it seem as if his jeweled eyes spun in place. But this was business, not pleasure. He quickly jumped up Vermillion's arm and into the shadows of her blood red curls. She then grabbed the handle and opened the door. Onyx's back was to the door. John fell backwards across the small room in front of her. A seviper coiled in the distance in between.

"Not as good with snakes as you are hounds, _eh_ Pharaoh?" Onyx snarled, her voice as cold as her snake's blood.

Vermillion squeezed the door knob in her hand. Seviper's tail would have cleaved John in half had that blow been an actual energy based attack. Luckily, the only thing John lost was his breath. His dignity had been shattered long ago. Vermillion quietly closed the door behind her. She kept her movements slow and quiet, unlike her rushing blood.

"Why didn't you use your houndoom?" Onyx interrogated. John sat up from the floor.

"It was a double match," he answered. Only John could manage to talk without any air in his lungs. "I picked the team I thought worked best together."

Seviper lunged forward and wrapped once around John's chest. She pinned his arms to his sides in a squeeze that lifted his shoulders in a gasping wince. Vermillion lifted in an inhale as if to breathe for him. She half expected to hear his ribs snap given their condition.

"I don't sponsor you to _think_ ," Onyx rebuked. Shiva, the seviper, spat a hiss in John's face. He turned his cheek away from the sprinkle of venom.

"He won, didn't he?" Vermillion softly shrugged as she held her arms behind her back and leaned against the wall. "And it was a good match at that."

Onyx whipped back a glare. The Jewel was in a foul mood, more so than usual. Sticking to the background had been the right decision. There was just enough distance between the two women to make Vermillion's position defensive and her opinion selective. Hands behind her back, she was belly up. Those black frames might have cut the intruder in two had it been any other interloper than the Polisher. Vermillion shrugged under the Jewel's glaring reproach, grateful that Cutter's chilly ghostly aura kept sweat from forming.

"The match was never meant to be cut throat," Onyx informed.

The Jewel had intended a blowout. Of course. What better way to understand the houndoom than to let him battle at full strength? A single pokemon stealing the limelight of a double match in an overwhelming display of dominance would set anyone's blood on fire. Too bad Onyx's was currently running ice cold. The Royal Jewel whirled back upon the source of her ire. John opened an eye against the crushing pressure without a trace of fear. Not a cry nor whimper escaped his lips now. Pokemon wouldn't intimidate him. Vermillion saw that. Onyx did to, so she un-holstered her pistol, squatted down in front of John, and held the barrel to his head. The safety wasn't on. It never was.

"Use another pokemon other than the hound again, and I'll personally insure that you make it to the bottom of the river."

Onyx shifted the gun over John's shoulder and fired a round into the wall. John flinched, tilting his head to the side in a painful expression of instant deafness. Vermillion softly closed her eyes. Onyx hovered the gun over John's shoulder, letting the heat and _twang_ of gunpowder sink in. When she was satisfied the memory set in, she pulled the gun away, stood up, and holstered the weapon back on her leg. Shiva uncoiled, dropping John to the floor once more. She slithered around Onyx's legs before she too was withdrawn and holstered.

Onyx snapped the ball back on her belt. She then turned for the door and stopped in the frame next to Vermillion. Her black framed glasses flashed in the light. Vermillion flicked her eyes up and met the snake eyed stare lash for lash. Like two males meeting one another in the wild, the women sized each other up. Vermillion was to blame for John's battling decisions but Onyx had given her complete control. Neither had discussed the details of this arrangement more than the night of the auction but both understood the rules of the game and the players involved. They stared at one another before Onyx opened the door and looked down at her henchman on the floor. He failed to get up at her appearance and rolled onto his back. Onyx bitterly diverted her frustrations upon him.

"Useless," she coldly remarked before she stepped on him and disappeared out of sight. Vermillion didn't dare turn her head away until those steel toed boots faded down the corridor. She then looked back at the discarded Blood Ace nearby. John pushed himself up off of the floor with one side of his face still pained with the gunshot ringing in his ears. He carefully scooted backwards until he hit the wall.

Vermillion unfolded her arms and walked closer. Her heels clicked against the linoleum but it was probably as quiet as a panther's step to John. She crouched down in front of him, her arms long as they hung over her knees. John wiggled a finger in his bad ear. Apparently being temporarily deaf was more of a nuisance than a handicap. Vermillion wanted to scoff but found that she couldn't. John proved he would fight in the Cage to survive and yet he had no interest in self-preservation. Maybe it was the whole hero, self-sacrificing thing he had going for him. Vermillion couldn't tell. She was too much of a villain.

"You are completely helpless," she sighed.

John dropped his finger from his ear. "What?" he asked just a little too loudly.

Vermillion ignored the inquiry. The only question that really mattered was Onyx's. "Why didn't you use your houndoom in the match?" she said. "He could have easily won the battle."

"Just because Lopo's strong doesn't mean he was the right choice." John readjusted his seat a little higher up along the wall. "Besides, he's not used to my party yet."

So the houndoom was a new addition to the family. That explained a lot. It was impossible for a string bean like John to grow a plentiful pumpkin patch pokemon like the canine on his own merit. No wonder he had such trouble controlling Lopo. But that raised a new question. Where _did_ the canine come from?

"It was a team battle," John continued. The ringing in his ears must have weakened because he no longer felt the need to shout. Either that, or he thought he was talking to himself. "I picked who I thought would work well together."

At least he wasn't a complete idiot. Vermillion shook her head in another sigh and plopped down on the floor in front of him. "First, I jump through hoops to keep you on your feet and now you've got me sitting on dirty ass floors right next to you," she mumbled.

John leaned closer with another loud "What?"

Vermillion crossed her legs and pulled two pokeballs from her belt with one hand. "You may be reckless but you've got good taste," she said while rolling the two balls in her hand. Not really caring if he heard her or not. "I keep a set of twins myself."

She transferred one ball into each hand, enlarged them, and flipped open the lids at the same time. There was no flash of materialization, only a dimming of the room as two shadows burned up from the capsules. They collected into two dark purplish black spheres. The gaseous matter packed tightly together, making them more like orbs of solid matter rather than the manifestation of spirits. The temperature in the room dropped as the smoky threads tightened. The internal friction birthed much lighter and paler purple wisps that smoked from the firmer center.

"Meet Jinx and Crooks, my gastly," Vermillion introduced as she put her head in her hand and motioned to each respective pokemon. Rolling smoke created the impression of faces within the floating orbs. White pinpricks glowed in the center of each eye socket. There was a distance to them, like the unreachable light only available to the dead. Such tiny miniscule points of light and yet men had gone mad starring into them. Vermillion watched John's reaction to her pokemon's materialization. Not a single shiver. In fact, he smiled. The dark puffy shadows under his eyes weren't quite as light as the expression, however.

"You look tired," Vermillion frowned.

"I've had a lot to think about," John admitted.

Vermillion was certain the ace would have reached out and touched the gas pokemon if he hadn't almost been crushed to death by a seviper. She doubted he would have even noticed the frost bite had he actually been able to touch their nearly frozen bodies.

"I haven't been able to sleep recently."

And if John didn't get any tonight, he wouldn't make it to the next match. As his coach, it would slander Vermillion's reputation if he died outside of the Cage. She pursed her lips, lifted a finger, and poked John on his forehead.

"Go to sleep," she commanded.

John started to chuckle a reply but couldn't get off as much as a syllable when Crooks suddenly levitated in front of him. Those innocent baby blues froze within the ghostly pinpoints of the pokemon's stare. Catching a soul was easy when one was drawn to the light so effortlessly like him. John's eyelids lowered. He lifted them once in a spurt of awareness, but without a reason to resist, they closed again. The _hypnosis_ worked within seconds. John sagged lightly to the side, fast asleep. Vermillion watched him a few moments before she stood up. Her gastly stayed level with her. Before them slumped the most pathetic excuse of a Blood Ace Vermillion had ever seen. He was completely vulnerable and at her mercy.

But then again, that was how she liked her men . . .

Sometimes.


	30. Gods and Gangsters: 1

**Gods and Gangsters: 1**

They called him a Blood Ace. A pokemon trainer that not only excels beyond the common crowd, but does whatever it takes to win. It might cost them their life. It might cost them their pokemon's but those six slots around their waists could always be refilled. Good spirits, fair play, referees, they didn't matter. The only thing running through a Blood Ace's veins was victory, ambition, and power . . .

"Stop coddling your pokemon," Vermillion barked from atop an oversized training block in the P.T. room. "Let them lose with dignity for Christ's sake."

John bent down and picked up Charles from the ground. The linoone's lower half obediently dangled as usual. The trainer sighed. Vermillion's words brought back memories of a time quickly fading into the past. Sensei used to say something similar. Aria, the opposite. The dojo had its life lessons, but the mountains had their own set of ranger rules. One of the most import being: "Never leave a friend behind". It was one of the best counters John had ever used against the Dojo's pride. Too bad it wasn't so effective against Vermillion.

"They can't fight when you keep getting in the way," she continued to chastise.

John didn't bother looking at her. Nothing but criticisms, rebukes, and insults glossed her lips all day. They were starting to become as routine as his new schedule: get up, clean his bed of straw, shower, dress, and fight. Then there was the twice daily drug regiment and shots full of steroids. His muscles were already starting to bulk in response to the five hour training work outs and protein supplements. John had to give the underworld credit. He was well taken care of, physically at least. It was up to him to fill in the rest. John brushed down Charles' coat. Lopo stood nearby, waiting with the patience of a xatu for the next go around or whatever else it was he was supposed to do that day.

"This isn't going to work," John informed. "Pitting my pokemon against one another isn't going to help Lopo win his upcoming one on one fight."

"That's because your pokemon are too weak to battle against him," Vermillion retorted. She jumped off of the block and strolled over with a twirl of her finger in her hair. "Besides, he's not the one who needs training." She pointed a finger at him. "You do. You act like you've never battled with him before."

"That's because I haven't."

Vermillion jerked to a stop with less poise than she intended.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."

John pretended he didn't say anything. Hiding the details of time traveling was more of a battle than anything the Cage could throw at him. The less he revealed about himself, the better, for his own sake as much as the future's. Besides, it's not like they would believe him. If a ranger loving pokemon fanatic like Liam couldn't get it, no one would. Luckily, Vermillion wasn't too concerned with his existence. Yesterday's team powwow with Onyx put them all in the hot seat. She couldn't afford to let him fail in the eyes of his sponsor again. After all, she was the one who put him there in the first place.

"Fine, we'll change tactics," Vermillion said. "Sit Miss Muffet on her tuffet and we might actually get some training done."

Charles blinked at the insult, failed to understand it, and rubbed his face with both paws. John obeyed and set the linoone on the floor. Vermillion bit her bottom lip slightly, scheming things John was afraid to discover. If her coaching was as ferocious as her appetite, he wouldn't last through lunch. Settling on a thought, Vermillion wrapped her crimson nails around the lines of a pokeball. A snap and flash later, Bezel, the rattata, materialized. It wasn't quite the spike and leather entrance John expected, but then again, what better pokemon for an assassin to own than the one everyone in the entire world overlooked. Being one of the most populated species on the entire planet, rattata could dissolve into any environment without notice and subsequently disappear almost instantaneously in a trainer's subconscious. John could picture it now: an unsuspecting person quickly turning in the shadow of a back alley thinking "What's that rustling? Oh a rattata, let me just turn my back, ignore it, and give it prime position to stab me in the back". The species would never sit idly in John's mind ever again.

Bezel scratched the floor and took off in a sprint around the room. John hopped lightly as the mouse pokemon darted between his legs. Lopo growled as it darted underneath him and Charles shook his head, unable to believe the sudden spurt of speed and bravado that rivaled his own. Surskit on water paled in comparison to the purple pokemon's maneuverability as he ran through the training course in less than two minutes. John's jaw dropped. It hit the floor the same time the mouse's paws hit his trainer's three inch heels. Lopo flicked his tail, shifted a paw, and looked away unimpressed. Charles swayed in anxious steps, glancing back and forth at John and Bezel. Vermillion giggled luxuriously at their discomfort. She ended it with a sigh.

"Ready to put some heat into your attacks now?" she purred with a rub of the mouse pokemon's head. "You won't win your next match without it."

John practiced a round of deep breathing, tugged up the ends of his long sleeves to show his wrists, and lowered slightly onto his knees. Charles dashed across his feet several times before settling in front of him in a similar way. It was a powerful shift in presence, one that would have almost made Vermillion excited except the fact that Charles wasn't fighting in this upcoming match. It would be the houndoom, and _he_ was currently more interested in sniffing nothing in particular from a nonexistent breeze. Lopo couldn't care less. To John's testament, he didn't break out in a sweat at the reaction, or better yet, lack thereof.

"Come on, Lopo, let's show her what you've got," he prompted. The houndoom lowered his head and walked next to Charles with the enthusiasm of a child off to clean their room. The team was officially present and accounted for . . . mostly.

"Oh, you poor misguided boy," Vermillion chuckled again, picking up John's enthusiasm. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before."

Her eyes drifted at a latitude down John's body. His cheeks burned into a blush. Heat was the last thing he needed right now, and the last thing an unpredictable cannon like Lopo required. John hated to admit it, but Vermillion was right. His ability as a trainer with a pokemon as grand as Lopo equaled that of a youngster. Lopo might just burn them all to a fiery crisp if they didn't get this training session right, all because the trainer wasn't sure how to handle the canine. They grew up together. One could say they were best friends, but that was only one twist in the invisible rope binding trainer and pokemon together. John and Lopo had known each other all their lives and yet John knew nothing when it came to the houndoom's internal mechanics.

It only proved that being an Ace involved more than bloodshed or being best friends.

But this tethering between Lopo and him was a fight like any other and John intended to tackle it just the same. He wouldn't trade an ounce of his history with the canine for the skill required to make it through this next match. Not a single drop of friendship for freedom. If fighting in the Cage kept John close to his pokemon, then he would fight.

And in 24 hours, he did.

John stepped into the light of the Cage. His opponent had already released his chosen pokemon. Across the battlefield, a graveler stretched out all four of his arms. He clenched his hands into fists and held them in a show of muscle. The sneer across his rocky face matched that of his trainer's. Cocky, confident, and pinched with enough wicked intent at the corners to curl his lips into a spiral. John glanced up at the scoreboard. The only clue he had to his opponent's identity was his call sign. Slate was what they called his rival, no doubt because of his choice in pokemon. Although, the trainer himself was more of a brittle sandcastle than a battling cornerstone. Thin but sharp at the joints, most of the heavy lifting in the man's life had been done through his pokemon. It made for a weak trainer

but a strong a pokemon.

There were no novices here. John felt it in the heavy hooting of the crowd as they prepared for battle as much as the combatants. This match would be his toughest yet, and not just from the type disadvantage. John looked down at the friend ball in his hand. Lopo was the strongest in his party. He was probably the strongest pokemon in this whole House. John wanted to believe that this fight would do them no harm but that wasn't the way of the sport. That wasn't the style of a Blood Ace. Had the houndoom in his hand been the same one he knew a year ago, there would have been no doubt in John's mind that they would make it out of this unscathed. But the Cage changes people. It changes pokemon.

And not for the better.

John clenched the ball in his hand. He could not doubt his pokemon now. His mentors would have shown no fear in the same situation, and neither would he.

The ball popped open. Lopo slipped out in a ribbon of shadow. It pooled and twisted into solidarity. Energy peeled away from the curl of his horns. It shredded against the flick of his barbed tail. The crowd roared into new heights. Shouting orders now wasn't just out of enthusiasm but necessity. Stomping rumbled the Cage House floor. It massaged Graveler's feet. He drew a smile as hard as his body. Neither flame nor shadow held sway over him. Fang and claw dulled against his hide. Even a houndoom as mighty as the one before him could not intimidate, and Slate couldn't stop grinning. The canine's ability to dominate the Cage vanquished instantly in the hard presence of this rock faced pokemon.

Lopo didn't care. It wasn't his job too. What was a pebble in his paw compared to the mountainous weight of losing one's trainer?

Graveler initiated the fight. He stretched out both sets of arms, this time with latent energy humming within. All four palms turned downward. An unseen force pulled the rocky pieces of his body tighter together. Lopo's black eyes glossed with the light of the Cage even as Graveler sheered his smile into a grin. All four hands suddenly pressed downward against an invisible table. At the same time, four paws leapt off of the ground. Lopo was already in the air as the _magnitude_ struck.

The platform shook during the attack, rattling the Cage in a localized earthquake. Slate remained still within the motion. He even crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk. His boots spawned his confidence. Although, they looked better suited for moon walking than battling. Hydraulic pistons and other engineering feats were built into the sides of the boots. They absorbed the energy of the attack. The ground could shake all it wanted and Slate wouldn't feel more than a vibration. Meanwhile, John wobbled on his feet. A _magnitude 1_ wasn't enough to shake him off of his feet and it wasn't enough to last the length of the houndoom's leap. The attack ended. Lopo hit the ground running. He was halfway across the Cage by the time his paws struck solid ground.

Curving into a circle, fire spewed from Lopo's lips. The arching trajectory kept Graveler in the center. Flames pooled around him but they didn't last long with nothing to burn. Lopo cut off the torrent and circled back around at a light jog. There was no need to rush. He had the speed advantage. Graveler had the defensive. The rock pokemon removed both sets of hands from his face as the flames cooled. When laid upon one another, they protected the most vulnerable part of his body better than a cloister shell. Only a light trace of smoke remained from the attack. It barely scorched the outermost layer of his crusted skin.

"Return!" John quickly instructed, calling the houndoom back to their end of the Cage.

Lopo had hotter flames but they weren't desperate enough for _that_ just yet. Exhaust all other options before revealing your ace. Keep your head, not your pride, in a fight. John smiled to himself. It was a Ranger Rule, not a life lesson. What better way to transition from friend to battling partner than with tips from the previous trainer herself? Aria's teachings of pokemon physiology would win them this fight. Where was the sweet spot in the rock pimple's defenses? There was no better way to find out than with a little reconnaissance.

John motioned for Lopo to take a forward position. The houndoom rounded into the trainer's corner. Experience weighted his ankle's, causing him to gravitate from one place to another with the ebb and flow of battle without any orders. Lopo trotted past John. Energy buzzed from the trainer, pushing the canine into another advance. They both felt it, the rhythm of the match, the melding of their styles. It was now or never to merge them together.

" _Recon_!" John ordered.

The word struck the canine's heart off rhythm. It _thumped_ in a heavy double beat, forcing him to a stop. His tail softly waved beside his leg in the recoil. The soft jingle of a bell could be heard. John stiffened in a similar motion. He looked from Lopo, to Graveler, and then the canine once more. Was Lopo hurt? Was he hesitating? Out of all the commands John could give, _this_ should have been the most familiar. It was of Aria's own design. Observe, test, and repeat. _Recon_ was the bread and butter of every mountain patrol.

"Lopo, wake up!" John shouted.

The houndoom blinked back the faraway look in his eye, and if that didn't close the distance between the past and present, Graveler's _rollout_ did. His rocky body barreled across the Cage. Lopo dodged to one side. John the other. Graveler slung between them, curling around the outer rim of the Cage. Sparks bounced as rock scratched metal. Slate aimed the attack at Lopo. This time, in a curling sweep that could sharpen and widen in anticipation of a dodge. Lopo dropped his head silently. The lines of his body began to shake until they suddenly pulled apart into two mirror images of one another. A _double team_. Standing side by side, even John couldn't guess which one was real, especially when they took off in opposite directions.

Graveler stretched out his arms and drove them into the platform. He scratched to a stop. Four large gashes trailed behind him. The arms that created them continued to push against the floor. Graveler flipped into a standing position. His body rocked from side to side as he turned to face the inside of the Cage. Two horns greeted him. They smacked into his face with a resounding _clack._ Spectators covered their ears in a wince. Graveler tilted backwards, used his arms as a counterweight, and brought them down with the force of a _smack down_. Lopo rode the recoil of the _feint attack_. He jumped backwards as the four fists descended. They grazed his nose and slammed into the platform empty handed. Cracks streaked out from the point of impact, collapsing part of the platform.

Flecks of paint and plaster dusted Graveler's face. He planted his two top heavy arms into the floor and swung his round body between them. Physics propelled his body forward better than a wrecking ball. His strength exploited the inertia. Graveler launched into another _rollout_ while Lopo floated in a back pedal. But moving backwards didn't mean retreat. The canine firmly planted both back feet in the landing and sprang forward. He rocketed past Graveler in the opposite direction. Rib armor scratched rocky hide in the passing. Graveler clenched his teeth. He missed.

Again.

And without anything to stop him, he _bulldozed_ into the side of the Cage. The metal broke underneath him, bending outwards in crooked lines. Safety generators popped. The subsequent crash scattered several people. Graveler wrenched free of the broken machinery. He stumbled backward, regained his balance, and stomped back towards the Cage. Leaving the arena via attack wasn't a disqualification, only a distraction. He looked up at the platform. It was four feet on the vertical. A difficult challenge for his weight but not his species. Graveler were built to climb. Using his upper arms, the rock pokemon latched onto the lip of the platform. The smaller set braced his weight below. He prepped the jump with a bounce and pushed off of the ground, pulling himself upwards.

Flames drenched Graveler from forehead to frown as he crested the edge. Two options simultaneously appeared before him. Let go, give the canine the high ground, and suffer a huge strategic disadvantage, or endure and fight. Graveler scrunched up his face and continued the climb. He refused to stop. As did the flames. Torrent after torrent blasted across the platform. The stream never failed, only weakening between breaths before billowing back to full strength. For every inch Graveler gained, Lopo withdrew, keeping the distance and heat between them the same. The attack line leveled out, indicating Graveler had made it back inside the Cage. Not a pebble could be seen within the inferno.

Mirages rippled within the dome. Heavy washes of superheated air billowed wildly within, carrying with them the smell of burnt earth. The atmosphere grew heavy. John winked an eye against the hot wind. Something was wrong. He touched his laboring chest. Gravity, not heat, pressurized the room. In a similar thought, the hairs on Lopo's back prickled. He quickly snapped off the faucet. Flickering remains whisked off of Graveler like a breeze. He stood blackened, burned, and smoking. All four arms held out with palms facing the ground. Each finger glowed a soft undulating orange. The _flamethrower_ had lasted long enough to cause deep and penetrating damage but also gave Graveler enough time to secretly build up another _magnitude_.

Lopo lived on a mountain his entire life. Predicting landslides and earthquakes came as natural to him as smelling rain. He threw his head to the side in warning. Being mountain born himself, John already felt the vibrations. He jumped up, grabbed the metal siding of the cage, and lifted himself off of the floor. Energy soaked into Lopo's paws, causing them to tremble even as he leapt into the air once more. Suddenly, the entire Cage House rattled in a _magnitude 3_. Dangling lamps swung on their cords. Several people screamed in panic. Others in exhilaration. Dust fell from the ceiling. Lopo landed on top of Graveler's head. Heat still simmered in the rocky body. The lingering energy combined with Graveler's immunity to such quakes, weakened the _magnitude_ to nothing more than a light massage.

Lopo threw down his head in another _flamethrower_. Tongues of flame licked backwards, up against the houndoom's legs. Brittle pieces of rock began to crack like overheated ceramic underneath him. Graveler couldn't ignore it. He dropped the _magnitude_ and swung the larger set of arms upward. Lopo couldn't see them under the flames.

" _Feint_!" John warned.

Lopo's body blurred in a _feint attack_. Having perfected the attack into a _teleport_ , he disappeared as two granite hands sharply clapped together. They came up empty. Graveler rubbed his head to make sure there were no paws left upon it. Dust from his burnt crusted skin fell over his eyes. The shower forced Graveler into a squint. His narrow gaze landed on the fire canine watching from a distance. A single uncaring flick of the tail sent the rock pokemon snarling into another _rollout_. Broken rubble spun off in friction and weakness against its force, shrinking Graveler a full inch from his original size.

Lopo bent low into a crouch. He cleared the obstacle in one leap. John waited for the remote controlled bowling ball to pass before he dropped down from the Cage. A game of sorts ensued between the two pokemon. Graveler made several passes. Lopo easily dodged every turn, wasting no energy with a game of chase. At this rate, his nimble paws would outlast the _rollout's_ endurance. He was more of a mountain than the rock pokemon ever hoped to be. Slate stamped a foot and threw his arms up in as many commands as curses. Lopo trotted across the platform as the _rollout_ curled towards him again. All he had to do was wait for the rock to run out of energy.

Or so he thought.

All four hands of the granite ball suddenly punched into the ground. A _bulldoze_ propelled by a _smack down_ suddenly rocketed Graveler forward. No amount of nimble maneuverability could escape the explosive attack. Lopo froze in place. To take the hit head on was the houndoom's pride. Graveler wouldn't have it any other way. He stretched out all four arms in rumbling laughter. They disappeared into the houndoom's body, reaching for flesh and bone and finding none. His fingers were neither warmed by blood nor cooled in the wake of a speedy dodge. Instead, Graveler slipped right through the canine, or rather, its clone.

And all this time he had been chasing a ghost.

Graveler didn't need to see the real canine to know where it was. Lopo appeared behind him, jaws already pried open in tongues of flame. The fire canine barked out a _fire blast_. The fiery cannon burst against Graveler's back, propelling him even faster through the air. Reaching speeds beyond the human eye, Graveler blew another hole through the cage. But this time, he didn't stop for people or obstacles. He crashed through the Cage House wall, along the tunnel, and clipped a foundation beam. Several people flinched into a scream as the rock pokemon wedged to a stop in the first wall of the Ring House with his head facing the Ring and his back to the fairway. The entire arena went quiet. Even the fighter's in the Ring pulled apart at the interruption. Expecting gunshots or even a meteor, they were surprised to find only the speckling of dust as Graveler groaned. Unable to move, he sagged into the wall as if he had been built within it.

The music scratched off. One customer too drunk to remember his cowardice, leaned closer to the pokemon in the wall. Solo cup in hand, he inched forward. Caution held his feet but curiosity craned his neck. Graveler didn't move at his approach. The surprise settled quickly without following action. Someone shouted something profane in the background about resuming the fight. It was answered by a unifying gasp as something suddenly punched Graveler out of the wall. He _thunked_ so heavily against the floor that it had to be in a faint. The curious customer jumped backwards, spilling his drink. It splashed over the rock pokemon as he rolled to a stop. All eyes shifted from Graveler to the hole again. They were shocked to find that it wasn't empty.

A houndoom stood on the other side. He shook off the pokemon's bodily dust from his horns in a sneeze. Someone dropped a beer bottle. Lopo settled his head, looked through the fresh window, and turned back the way he came. A sea of people parted in the fairway for him. Even more rushed to the hole in the wall. They all watched as the houndoom made his way back to the Cage House. Mobs of people rushed after him in both directions, only to stop when they came upon him. Fear kept them from pressing in too close. Lopo detoured from the crowd and hopped back through the matching hole in the Cage House wall. Wires and dumbfounded stares didn't tangle his feet or slow him down. His tail didn't flick and his gaze didn't wander.

John stood close to the edge of the Cage platform. His face was tense and lips tight. He watched in silence as Lopo parted the crowd, curved around the generators, and hopped back up onto the Cage platform as easily as a path through the woods. He slowed, came to a stop in front of his trainer, and looked up. Not a shred of regret or remorse clouded his eyes, dark as they already were.

He waited for the next go around, still as a xatu.

The crowd could only stare at the two left standing in the middle of the broken battered metal of the Cage:

Pharaoh and his black god, Anubis.


	31. Gods and Gangsters: 2

**Gods and Gangsters: 2**

Something wasn't right. They were being too nice to him. Or at least, nicer than usual.

John wasn't sure what to make of it. Instead of the usual foreplay, Vermillion only made a brief appearance in the morning. She returned his pokebelt with a wink and a matching blown kiss, mentioning something about having an _actual_ job to do today and being unable to babysit. John accepted the belt without question and by the time he snapped it in place, three grunts waited in the doorway for him. Although grim and grumpy, they did not kick, beat, or threaten him into motion. One in the front. Two in the back. A beldum accompanied them from behind. Maybe a spy of sorts, to make sure John behaved while the vixen was away. But the extra eye following them like a drone wasn't any different than the rest of the stares the group caught while walking through the compound.

Murmurs and onlookers shadowed their steps from shower, to wardrobe, to the clinic, and even through a meal that consisted of more than gruel and slosh. As word spread, curiosity quickly became inquiries and someone even attempted to approach the group. They were quickly deterred by the grunts. Each on equal height with John and weighing twice as much, it took only a clench of the fists. The attention spurred a change in direction, of which, led to a security checkpoint and several unforgiving faces. Neither side spoke. They didn't have to when obviously arrangements had been made. The trio passed off their charge to another at the gate.

Just one grunt this time.

Granted, he didn't seem like the usual bag and tag cronies. He was neither impatient nor begrudged by his task to transport. It was merely his duty, and to fulfill it, he had six rounds on his pokebelt and six in the semiautomatic pistol under his arm. He neither pushed nor shoved. Like Vermillion, he simply guided with the sheer weight of his presence. John silently followed behind him as if shackled by chains on his ankles and wrists.

Although, this part of the compound could hardly be considered a prison.

Deep saturated light illuminated the corridors. Exotic perfumes and cigar smoke lingered in the air. The corridor transitioned into a vestibule which dramatically opened up into what could have been the plaza of a luxury hotel. Artwork filled alcoves on every side. Name plaques and stenciled logos on glass windows designated one shop from another. Silks, diamonds, furs, and every other manner of valuable but illegal indulgences twinkled on display. Lush green live plants decorated the spaces in between. Custom lighting made it seem as if the ceiling was made of glass and this place a carefully cultivated greenhouse. John looked upwards just to make sure they were still underground. He was right, but the ceiling was no less grand. Mosaics and more art painted the vaulted ceilings. There was even a fountain in the middle of an upcoming junction decorated with gold filigree, flowering plants, and a velvet seating area.

Who knew the Black Market could be so elegant?

John drifted to a stop until a brief glance from the grunt pulled him into step again. They approached a tailor shop. Three clothes mannequins stood in the window. One was dressed in a fine black tie and jacket, the second in a colorful plaid vest, and the third in a costume twisted jacket geared towards aces of a finer sort. Sporting similar attire, a pokemon trainer with a Persian walked out of the shop. He paused to adjust his swank, tossed the two incoming customers a glance, and moved on.

Was that supposed to another Blood Ace? Would they fight in the Cage? John didn't have a chance to ask as his escort opened the door and went inside. The trainer quickly followed. He had never been fitted before, especially not for casual wear. The tailor worked quickly, already having a set of measurements in hand. John could only imagine one red lipped smirk capable of estimating them. He suppressed a shudder and let the professional do his work. They said nothing in the parlor. Between John, the guard, and the tailor, there was only prearranged professionalism to be had.

Something had changed. There was no doubt in John's mind that it was because of Lopo's performance in the Cage yesterday. His new attire only supported his suspicions. John glanced at himself in the three paned mirror. Fitted black slacks, a reddish orange collared shirt, and a black vest with silver buttons, he was the human reincarnation of a houndoom if he ever saw one. Several gold coins passed between the guard and the tailor. The transaction was complete. Just who exactly was paying for this pricy upgrade anyway? John turned his eyes away from the grandeur of the market to the guard in front of him as they left the shop. The guard's attire wasn't nearly as formal as John's but the quality resembled that of the posse once seen loitering in Boss Ruby's lounge. Black from head to foot, weaponized, and confident to the point of causality, he had to be a lieutenant. And lieutenant's always reported to a Jewel.

John swallowed a knot of realization down his throat.

They were on their way to see Onyx.

That fact alone was so discomforting that John didn't bother asking why. It made for a tensely quiet exit from the Market. It was quieter in this part of the complex, probably because they had descended several stories below sea level. The gold and glam of the market was replaced with the cold sharp edges of stone and steel. Concrete transitioned to stonework and soon John realized that he was no longer in an underground city but the dank layers of a medieval fortress. They had arrived. Two separate double paned keycard access doors replaced the spear pointed portcullis. The lieutenant punched in a code and hovered an eye over a scanner. The first set of doors opened. He repeated the process with the second set of doors, trading a retina scan for a thumbprint. They opened in a rubbery hiss of decontamination.

Onyx stood in the middle of the corridor on the other side. John remained on his side of the door. His escort hadn't gone any further and he wouldn't either, not until he had to. The wardrobe change suddenly made sense. Judging from the look on Onyx's face, she needed a constant reminder of why she put up with John's presence in the first place. Her scowl shifted over his shoulder.

"Lieutenant," she thanked.

Lieutenant Vaughn nodded back, offered John one last sneer, and left. Both sets of doors closed behind him. The key code panels flashed red. Locked. There would be no escape. Onyx looked John over again, ignoring his pokebelt and confusion. Neither were worth addressing. She then turned and walked deeper into the corridor.

"Keep up," she instructed.

John would have preferred to fight in the Cage.

But Onyx wouldn't have dressed him if she didn't plan on looking at him a little longer. John obeyed. His long stride quickly caught up with her. He made sure to give himself an extra foot or two in between. Snagging the coattails of a Royal Jewel might just snag him a claw in the jugular. Or in Onyx's case, a bullet to the head. John pinched an eye at the memory. Luckily, he was so accustomed to life and death scenarios that a stroll down a dark hallway behind a nefarious marauding murderer was the closest thing he had to a walk in the park. The view wasn't that bad either.

Paintings lined the walls and they weren't the gaudy interpretive kind. Golden age classics stroked the dark stone with color. They were the kind of paintings commissioned for royalty. Ones created by geniuses driven so hard at their craft that their sweat and blood had mixed with the paint. Gruesome, erotic, and thought catching, these images had never seen museums. Ancient crusades, political overthrows, and whimsical encounters stretched across the canvas. And where their edges ended, others began. Suits of armor and racks of sharpened medieval weapons protected the displays. All ancient, one of a kind, priceless armaments that persevered both the violence and peace created by their use.

"If you're going to ask a question, then do it," Onyx snapped without looking behind her. John's gawking was so loud that she could hear it. "Just make sure it isn't stupid."

If the decorum alone alluded to Onyx's level of intelligence then everything in the world was stupid. But John's tongue was too practiced a muscle to be paralyzed completely. He stretched it a few times in thought before speaking. Obviously, someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep these artifacts hidden from history. The security measures proved that. But there was something about this place that set it apart from the Black Market. John had explored enough damp moldy caves to know that this one had been carved and cleaned. It was cold but not freezing and the artwork wouldn't be on display if it was going to go into storage or in danger of damage. But the biggest oddity was the way in which Onyx walked. It reminded him of Lopo when he walked at night rather than in the day.

"Do you live here?" John asked.

It must not have been a stupid question because the answer didn't sting with annoyance. In fact, Onyx took a few seconds to decide on the reply.

"Sometimes," she said.

It was more than enough for John to reform his image of the Jewel. Black as she may be, that color was never as empty as it seemed. In fact, it was the best color to hide everything in.

Onyx shifted her head slightly, like one in thought, and turned into a large set of double wooden doors. They opened into a much larger show room. John tilted his head back with the ascent of the ceiling. An iron chandelier hung from the rafters. Electricity brightened the candle points. Real flames would have only threatened to damage the items below. There wasn't any furniture in the room, only pedestals with glass cases on top of them. Illuminated and vacuum sealed, the showcases insured that not a single item within ever felt the light of day or a breath of fresh air.

Jewel's as big as John's wide eyes glittered through the glass. Pieces of armor spoke volumes more about war than any book. Pottery shells that once held sacred oils and holy offerings lay fragmented along special cloths. And then there were the shelves of books with more secrets than a cultish library sleeping peacefully in their binds. Onyx stepped to the side to let the full value of the room knock John's jaw out of place. Eons of culture came to light from the shadow of humanity's forgetfulness. Remnants of empires proudly held their ground against time in those cases. John glanced over at Onyx. She shrugged her shoulder ever so slightly and looked away. These things were mere trinkets in her play box of treasures.

More like toys for the gods.

John walked a little deeper into the half torture chamber half gallery, unsure if he should be amazed or disgusted with the collection. He stole another glance at Onyx. She made no motion to stop him. True appreciation for art and history was rare in these parts. She would accept it even in the form of a backwater hillbilly like himself. John bent over the nearest glass case. A book lay propped open on a stand. Its pages had turned gold with time. The secrets fermenting within were probably worth just as much. Another case had three stands. Two were filled with medium sized spheres. One orb was multifaceted like a diamond. The other, smooth like a bubble but with the weight of a pearl. They winked at him in a small glitter of light.

A mere handful of these antiques could change humanity's understanding of the world. That alone made them priceless. And here they were, all gathered together in one place underneath the footsteps of tyrants.

"Aren't you afraid of keeping everything in one place?" John asked as he walked over to a tall case protecting some type of carving. "Aren't you afraid someone from above will-

-try to steal them?" Onyx interrupted.

John winced. It was a stupid question given the security measures it took just to find the front door let alone walk through it. He didn't turn around. Maybe it was better if he didn't see the end coming. A humored scoff hit his ears instead of a scythe. Acknowledging the fact that there were thieves of a high enough caliber to trespass even here was enough for Onyx to bit down her ridicule. After all, there was one name that came to mind almost immediately.

"The Royal Jewels may scurry and shit all over this city but that's just on the surface," Onyx exclaimed. She walked up to one of the cases and tenderly stroked the electrified laser protected case. "No one dares to come down here." She flicked her eyes up at John and their gazes met. "They're too afraid of the boogey man."

John broke into a sweat. Luckily, Onyx turned her eyes back to the deity of an ancient tribe under the glass beneath her thumb.

John silently exhaled with another glance around the room. Outside of the garden of pedestals, larger artifacts decorated the gallery. A full scale skeleton of an aerodactyl flew in suspension over their heads. It was a pristine display of a power that once ruled the skies. Now, it protected the underworld with its bones. John dropped his chin to his chest. Another skeleton came to mind, one often known for consorting with devils.

Houndoom.

John gently touched his hand to his black vest as if to stroke the fire canine he resembled. There was no way a mediocre trainer and fighter like him could catch the eye of a Royal Jewel, Vermillion, or Liam Valenis.

That was Lopo and it always had been.

Onyx had an end game and John had a feeling that the dark pokemon was it. Maybe the Royal Jewel intended to mount his horns on the wall next to the kabuto heads and omanyte shells? Or maybe she intended to finally claim a real hell hound to warm the soles of her feet? John's hand drifted down to his pokebelt. A small smirk tickled the corner of his mouth. Of course Onyx wanted Lopo. Who wouldn't? He was raised by a Pokemon Ranger after all. That alone insured that the fire canine would become the best of his species. Maybe it was the memories of Aria, or his childhood with the dark pokemon, but a warmth melted John's shivering heart. It smoothed out the cold prickle along his skin, causing his shoulders to settle and muscles to relax. He grew taller in casual confidence, using his height to scan the room.

For what, he wasn't really sure. But as his eyes drifted across the glass cases, one in particular caught his gaze. And when it did, he couldn't look away. The object inside wasn't special at first glance. Some might have regarded it pretty but also mere peasantry compared to the grandeur around it. They might have even passed it by completely had they stumbled across it on their own outside of the gallery. And it just so happened to resemble something John had seen before.

Softly and slowly, his foot lifted across the floor. So swift was the motion that it honored the hound he portrayed. Onyx glanced sharply to the side at the _faint attack_ like motion. Her instincts prickled but quickly relaxed as she watched John stride away from her and across the room. She didn't expect the ace to move with such smooth and powerful purpose, but then again, this was her private collection. Becoming enamored by one or all of the objects was bound to happen sooner or later. Leaving the skeletons behind, John slowly came up to the case. He would have laughed had he not been compelled into awestruck silence.

Inside the case was a feather.

Coated in gold, it glowed in the soft light of the case. Deeper hues weighted the base, teasing into the fiery oranges and reds the higher the eye ascended. The colors faded along the way. Not in weakness, but increasing purity so that the gold blessed itself white at the tip. John tilted his head and a flash of green ran across the sharp white edge better than the internal refraction of a mineral. Not a strand had crumpled. Stiff crisp edges sharpened the silhouette. The feather was much healthier than the one Aria had given him. The amount of restoration and care poured into the relic proved its worth.

John softly touched the glass. The gold light melted into his fingertips. It was a single discarded feather, and yet, the radiance of the pokemon that had left it behind was still strong. Onyx silently slid into John's shadow. Usually, a single fingerprint was enough to trigger the heat sensors. Somehow the air within the case had warmed the glass to resting body temperature. She'd have to adjust the setting later. But it had been a while since she last visited this relic. Her eyes darted from John's finger prints to the feather below. The corner of her lips turned up ever so slightly.

"Out of all these treasures, you touch _this one_?" she asked. "You really do have a death wish."

"Why?" John asked. He had held its reflection in silver and blue to no ill effect.

"Because, _that_ is a _Rainbow Wing_. Touch it and you're marked."

"Marked for what?"

"Death."

" _Death_?"

"I'm sure even a pathetic trainer like you has heard the stories."

Bedtime stories, perhaps, but nothing so grim and morbid. Then again, tales for children usually left out the more gruesome life lessons. Onyx waited for verification of her assumption. At least, she had expectations at all. John kept his words firm and confident.

" _Rainbow Wings_ are the feathers of a legendary pokemon," he recollected. The pages of the over used books coming back to him. "They have the power to summon said pokemon, and if they are found worthy, have a chance to catch it."

For a moment, John swore he saw Onyx's eyes glint. She intended to correct his naivety and have fun while doing it.

"One touch of this feather," she elaborated, "ignites the latent energy within. It resonates back to its original source like a beacon into space, calling _said pokemon_ forth to reclaim it. And don't be mistaken. It won't be happy to see you. To merely graze the _wing's_ edge would be considered an attempt to use the pokemon's power without its permission. If the initial combustion doesn't kill you, you'll be marked until the legendary comes to kill you itself and reclaim what was so wrongfully taken."

John found the superstition hard to believe. After all, he held the _Silver Wing_ in his hand and toted it around in a torn, mud studded, backpack for days. Then again, it _was_ the reason he had been thrown into this timeline in the first place. Pokemon Rangers were real. Why wouldn't legendary pokemon be too? A thought struck John so hard that his eyes widened. He looked down at the feather as if looking at the tattered used counterpart sitting in a box in his backpack back at the dojo.

Is that what happened to Aria?

John quickly pulled his hand away. Onyx laughed. It was a sharp and cold sound like the toss of a broken knife in a dirty sink. It stung like a practical joke and yet the way the Jewel's eyes flashed behind those glasses felt like the amusement of someone who knew something he didn't. Onyx quieted and walked across the gallery back to the door. She didn't look back, and if John didn't want to become a part of history like the other relics, he had to follow. The field trip was over. John hurried into step and looked over his shoulder at the feather one last time. Its beauty no doubt a warning to its danger.

Maybe it was a good thing he had left the silver feather behind . . .

A short trek through the dungeons later and Onyx stopped in the door frame of a small room.

"This is where you'll be staying from now on," she said, the coldness of her tone returning. "Keeping my winning Blood Ace in the stables isn't good for show."

Or more accurately, she was talking about her future houndoom. John tucked the thought away as he walked past her and into the room. There was a bed, an end table, and a small lamp. Despite the room having the same sinister air as the rest of the dungeon, it did come with a blanket. That in itself was an upgrade.

"Leave this room, utter a peep, or in any way, shape, or form remind me of your existence, and I won't hesitate to blow out both of your ears in one shot," Onyx said.

John turned to her with the traces of a smirk. At this point, threats had become a part of his existence as easily as "Hello" and "Goodbye". "I'm pretty good at being forgotten," he casually mentioned.

Onyx's gaze lingered for a split second too long. It revealed how John had actually managed to squeeze into her thoughts for a moment, but _only_ for a moment. She dismissed the encroachment, reached into a pouch on her belt, and pulled out an ultra ball. She tossed it across the room. "Here."

John caught the ball before it landed him a black eye. The release smacked so hard into his palm that it triggered a release. Sharp rigid energy spilled out onto the middle of the floor. It coiled into the shape of an ekans.

"A new addition to your party," Onyx explained. She must have been in a good mood because she hadn't abandoned him without an explanation since picking him up at the door. The snake pokemon lifted his head, looked at her, and spat out a hiss. "His name is Saul. He's from the best cobra breeder on the continent."

"And you're giving him to me?" John asked with a point to himself.

"If you're going to continue to fight for me, I won't let your baby face sour my image. Your goody-two-shoes act is boring. People want to see pokemon that are thrilling and dangerous. Plus, you need more pokemon. The next match is a double. Two on two. And I don't want that ragdoll in the Cage again."

Ragdoll? Was she talking about Charles?

"Besides, he refuses to evolve for me." Onyx tilted down her glasses in reference to the snake. "And a first evolution isn't worth shit."

Saul snapped in a mock lunge. He then turned to John with just as furious of a hiss. Onyx closed the pouch and her finger brushed around the ring of one of her pokeballs. John nodded his head at it.

"More of a viper than a cobra fan if I remember correctly," he added.

Onyx quickly dropped her hand and the temperature in the room at the same. "Use him with the hound in the next match," she commanded. "Or you're dead."

Since the threat wasn't meant for Saul, the ekans slowly uncurled to scent out the room. He slithered towards the furniture, both curious and cautious about it at the same time. John recognized the behavior from countless wild pokemon brought into the Welcome Center for Rehabilitation. The snake never occupied a room that wasn't a battlefield or a cage. John frowned.

"Don't worry. He knows what to do in a fight," Onyx reassured. "He's won several matches on his own. I wouldn't have bought him if he wasn't worth his weight in venom. He'll take care of himself. Just don't get in his way."

John would have never guessed that the snake was a Cage veteran based off of his scales. They were smoothed to a gloss. Battle heavy scales often showed scarification. Some even took more than one shedding to remove. Saul had either built up a very thick protective scaling or his opponents never made it past the first bite. The more powerful the venom, the less effort it took to win. And when poison didn't work, there was always physical skill. John visually measured the snake as he slithered about. They could probably meet eye to eye at full stretch. Saul's body was also as thick as an anchor rope. He would make a formidable opponent against any type. But that didn't interest the homegrown trainer.

"Why won't he evolve?" John suddenly asked.

"At this point, I think he's just trying to spite me," Onyx said. They both watched as Saul bonked his nose into the end table. He shoved it out of his way in retribution.

"That, and he's got more pride than a fucking ninetails."

John could tell. Most male pokemon either showed off or missed out in the wild. And when they were captured, there was only one option available out of the two. Marco was a prime example. But evolution wasn't as simple as reaching an energy threshold. Maybe Saul wasn't ready yet, or maybe he never found a reason too. Why evolve, change everything, and start from scratch when you're already shelling out victories one after another? Sounded pretty cut and dry to him.

"If I didn't already invest so much coin in him, I would have dumped him long ago," Onyx added. "Either way, I don't really care. He's your headache now."

Onyx turned on her heel, walked out, and slammed the door behind her. Conversation over. A flash of materialization through the bottom of the door replaced the click of a lock. A talon tapped against the floor. John had no interesting discovering the species of which it came from. The sound itself was more than capable of keeping Onyx's promise. Besides, John had bigger things to worry about. He looked down at the pokebelt strung across his hips. How long had it been since he wielded it? A hand tenderly ran along the belt but stopped halfway across. How long had it been since he had control of it? First, Aria left Lopo in his care. Then, Time takes Lularoo in an instant. Athena got dragged along for the ride and now Saul had snaked his way into the party.

More than half of John's belt wasn't his own.

Obtaining Lopo may have been unavoidable, but even then, there should have been two empty spots on his pokebelt. Growing up alongside a Ranger, pokemon didn't just fill a spot on a belt. They filled the spaces of the heart. And the two pokemon that used to ride John's clumsy stride as a kid didn't disappear the day he took them off of his roster. One by one, the spots had been filled in this trip to the past. Mother, the mightyena, wouldn't have minded. She would have gladly let Athena take her spot knowing how powerful, beautiful, and graceful the bird was. John fingered the last remaining empty slot on his belt. It would now be filled with an ekans. Saul would take the spot once reserved for a very brave and very scrawny bellsprout. Luckily, Sprout was a master of making wiggle room.

John looked down at the pokeball in his hand. It was a standard ultra ball. Nothing special or fancy about it. He ran his thumb along the edge and popped it open. Metal, plastic, a hard-drive panel, and fiber optics reflected back at him. A feint white glow emitted from inside in response to the resonance of a nearby energy signature. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Saul lifted his head again. He saw the open ball in John's hand and rolled his lower half into a coil. His tail rattled dangerously.

"Alright, alright, easy now," John exclaimed, turning his eyes up from the ball. "I won't make you go back." The ball swirled into minimization. It filled the last remaining slot on the trainer's pokebelt.

The two then stared at one another. Onyx may have thrust ownership upon John, but he felt no need to rush to third base. Saul and he were very much alike. They were both locked in this dormitory from hell together. Besides, it wasn't like the snake could escape the room with the mystery guard behind the door. And even if he did, Onyx had raised the ekans in the Cage. Fighting was all he knew. He wouldn't abandon it, especially when he was doing so well. Plus, Saul wouldn't have a clue what to do in the wild. A flock of highly motivated pidgey could take him down if they wanted at that level of environmental awareness.

The rattling stopped and gave way to silence. Saul relaxed out of his coil, flicked his tongue a few times, and slithered across the room to investigate the other wall. While he was preoccupied tracing the seams of the room, John pulled the blanket from the mattress. He carried it to the corner of the room with the best vantage point, away from the bed and eyes on the door. Two folds flattened the blanket on the floor. A slide set it neatly into the corner. Some intentional rustling plumped up the edges and a little wrinkling loosened the top layer. Preparations complete, John got up and retrieved the lamp. By then, Saul had made it around to the foot of the bed. He stretched up to probe the thin mattress. John slowed his movements but continued with the mission. He carried the light to the corner. Luckily, the cord still reached. He set it on the floor next to the blanket and angled the shade to aim the light, and residual heat, on the blanket.

It wasn't the best nest John had ever built, but it would do. He sat back on his toes and something moved beside him. John stopped, making sure to keep his gaze forward and not on the shadow in the corner of his eye. Saul also stopped. He flicked his tongue, waiting to see what the trainer would do now that they were so close to one another. He did nothing. Satisfied that the human was frozen in fear, Saul continued on. He slithered low across the floor, touched his tongue to the blanket, and turned away towards the wall. John smiled, slowly stood up in a backwards step, and turned away. Saul quickly angled back to the nest. He touched his forked sensor to the blanket again. The heat of the lamp enticed him on top of it. He coiled quickly into a heap. Like all reptilian based pokemon, a heated blanket beat a stone cold floor any day.

Ranger Rule #12: Ignoring a wild pokemon is the best way to get close to them.

In a similar fashion, John walked over to the bed. He was short a blanket and a lamp but getting up off of the floor did wonders for his mentality. Having a roommate also beat the eerie creaking and moaning of the pokemon holding pen. John glanced over to the corner again. Saul had most of his body on the blanket now. He'd probably stay there all night. There was a chance the snake might change his mind and attack, but chance was better than certain death. And what did it matter, dying now or later? John was more likely to die a horrific death in the Cage than from a snake bite. At least, poisoning was familiar. He spent enough nights sleeping on the mountain to wake up to cold blooded creepy crawlies sharing his body heat in a sleeping bag. Besides, the mob doctor kept his blood pumped with enough drugs that it would take days for the venom to stop his heart.

At least now, he wasn't alone. John sat on the bed and pulled up his legs for meditation. Releasing Charles or any of the others would only disturb the snake's fragile pride. It might also invite the monster on the other side of the door to join them. Flailing in hopeful desperation now would only land him and his party in a dead end escape. They were closer to the razor edge of Onyx's tolerance now more than ever. The more invisible he became, the safer they all were.

John settled into his favorite meditative position, took a slow deep breath, and let the darkness set in . . .


	32. Gods and Gangsters: 3

**Gods and Gangsters: 3**

"Showcase tonight: Pharaoh vs. Kronos. An epic clash of the gods. Will the ancient Anubis and Horus twins crumble to dust under the reign of Zeus and Achilles, or will the divine birth yet another monstrosity? All coin taps lifted, this match only."

Vermillion scoffed so sharply that her red lipstick could have been mistaken for blood. She sat backwards on a training mount in the P.T. room, scrolling through the dashboard of her phone. The alert for tonight's match went out earlier than expected. It would have been nice if a certain someone had warned her of the lineup, but then again, she was just a coach and not a sponsor. Onyx was getting impatient. She wanted Lopo now more than ever after the canine's latest display defied the standards of pokemon energy types. Removing John from the picture had become a priority and Kronos might just be the one to do it. He was no amateur trainer. There was a reason the B.A. and his pokemon were named after gods. Vermillion smirked to herself.

Then again, so was hers.

It was too late to try and change the lineup now anyway. Once something hit the Dark Web, there was no taking it back. Thousands of other criminals, contract killers, and bosses simultaneously received the same alert. They would all ponder the same thing: who will win? Vermillion sharply blinked off the alert and tapped into the usual boards and chat rooms lesser beings often trolled after Cage notifications. Might as well see what the population was thinking. Knowing your audience was just as important as knowing your opponent in a House match, especially when they didn't respect the law.

Vermillion leaned in closer to her phone as she scrolled through the feed. There was more hype about Pharaoh than she expected. Changing the flavor of the usual matches had reminded the audience exactly what they wanted: a massacre. They didn't care which side it came from, only that it eventually happened. There was even speculation about a new pokemon reveal for Pharaoh. That was one piece of gossip Vermillion was already familiar with. She glanced away from her phone and into the training room. John stood in an empty zone. Saul was the only one out with him. He mentioned something about working one on one to get to know the pokemon better. All decent trainers did the same thing, but the innocent sincerity in the statement made Vermillion's ears itch. She glanced back at the screen.

And apparently, she wasn't the only one with an inside scoop. A high majority of the posts speculated a poison type pokemon. More so than usual. There was even a steady trend of snake based guesses across the board. The Polisher clenched her phone a little harder. Onyx was purposefully leaking information. Vermillion glanced at John again. The idiot didn't even realize he was being set up for slaughter. She looked away in a snuff. An oblivious idiot deserved whatever he got . . . Vermillion bit the edge of her thumb as she continued to see the coded handiwork of her employer. A hint here, a post there, all clues for Kronos to gobble up and pack into his pokebelt for the match tomorrow. Vermillion's teeth threatened to cut through her nail polish.

Giving a Blood Ace a brand new pokemon before a battle was suicide. Not even sponsors in the League were naïve enough to do the same. Debuting a pokemon in battle was one thing. Obtaining a freshly transferred one was another. The match was destined to go sideways from the beginning. Or more accurately, before it even started. A sharp motion caught Vermillion's eye. She flicked her eyes beyond her phone again just in time to catch the tail end of a bad decision. John was crouched in front of Saul when the snake suddenly lunged. Two fangs landed in John's shoulder. He hit the floor, dragging the rest of the pokemon behind him.

"Shit!"

Vermillion rolled off of the beam. Her heels hit the ground at full speed and a pokeball popped open before her curls finished bouncing. Luminesce materialized, claws already in motion.

"No!" John suddenly yelled from the floor.

Vermillion and Luminesce instinctively stopped in their sprint across the room. The struggle on the floor more captivating than the command. Saul had struck, but for some reason, John didn't let him go. He held the base of the snake's neck in his hands, forcing both fangs to stay firmly clamped to his shoulder. The strength behind a snake bite came from its lightning fast catch and release tactic. And now unable to release, Saul's lower half thrashed. It tried to coil around John but the floor underneath them now served as an obstacle for a full body _wrapping_. They struggled together for a solid three minutes. And for a solid three minutes, Vermillion and Luminesce watched in silence.

Saul began to slow and eventually stopped altogether. John laid on the bottom, gazing up at the ceiling, unmoving but still unwilling to let go. Saul laid draped across him just as motionless. Their heavy panting filled the training room. Vermillion kept to the sideline. She found the entanglement a heated scene, especially when John suddenly sat up with the cobra still attached. Drenched in sweat and flushed with exertion, he used his two large powerful hands to slowly pull the fangs out from his shoulder. The pain, the power, and not an ounce of fear, Vermillion exhaled in a hot shudder.

John grunted lightly. He could have suffocated the snake right then and there. Snap his neck with a single well marked twist. But of course, John did neither. Instead of casting the pokemon aside in fury or dropping it in disgust, he carefully lowered Saul's head to the ground. The snake remained where he was placed. His gummy mouth remained open to try and suck up as much oxygen as possible. He did not, or rather, could not, remove himself from John's lap and John didn't make him. Brought together by exhaustion, the two sat together as if they had spent the last two days fighting in a battle that would have decided the fate of the world.

Vermillion relished in the sight a moment longer. It wasn't every day that a man wrestled a full grown ekans with his bare hands and won. She then relaxed and snapped Luminesce's ball back on her belt.

"I guess I should get you an _antidote_ ," Vermillion offered.

John winked up at her with a smile. Even without the daily dose of painkillers, she was sure he would have done the same. He weakly waved away the assumption.

"No need," he panted. He motioned to his shoulder. "Cut off the supply . . . before it hits . . ." He reenacted his previous grip on the snake but didn't have the strength to hold it for more than a few seconds. His hands dropped back down to his lap. "Bite's just a bite."

John patted the snake laying across his legs. Saul narrowed a pupil but did not rattle his tail. He had been broken. John had proved himself a true pokemon trainer with simple tact, even simpler strength, and pure will. Maybe he wasn't so pathetic a trainer as she thought? Now that the two had come to an understanding, it was possible they could eventually work to become a decent team but not before tomorrow night. John hadn't come out unscathed but now Vermillion had all the ammunition she needed to give him at least a marginal chance at winning the upcoming match. She lifted her phone in a sigh too heavy for the task.

"I leave you alone for five minutes and your own pokemon turn against you," Vermillion said while tapping away on her phone. "Can't say that I'm surprised." She glanced at the snake in John's lap. "That's just too much pokemon for you to handle. I'll pass on your failure to Onyx." Another click and the message was sent. Vermillion tucked the phone back into her black laced bustier. "You'll have to choose someone else to fight with the hound tomorrow night." She stole a glance at John and wished she hadn't. He smiled with something she had not seen in a long time. Something she hadn't felt in an even longer time.

"Thanks," he said.

Vermillion quickly turned her head away with a scoff. It puckered her lips and puffed up her cheeks. "Don't thank me. I just can't have you murdered by your own pokemon on my watch. Besides, Ekans doesn't look like he'll put up a fight until he finds his pride again." John laughed, glanced down at the snake, and stroked a length of the purple muscle. Vermillion tensed imagining how that stroke would feel up her thigh. She quickly dismissed the fantasy.

"You can make it up to me at the party tonight," she quickly said.

John lost his smile as fast as the color in his face. "What party?" he asked.

Vermillion thinned her lips in a tight smirk, showing her ivory white fangs. "We're going out tonight," she announced with a swipe of a nearby towel. She threw it on John's head "Consider it a perk for being a Blood Ace."

John yanked the towel from his eyes. In that small episode, Vermillion had come up close to him. She leaned forward, nearly spilling her own two mountain peaks into John's lap. He blatantly turned his head away.

God she loved it when he did that.

Vermillion drew a finger under his chin and lifted his gaze once more. Their eyes met barely an inch or two apart.

"Saddle up Big Boy," she whispered. "Because this next exercise is my specialty."

* * *

John thought he had been through hell. Being kidnapped and forced to fight for his life in a metal cage, all while knowing that his existence in this world was a mistake, had tested his will to the point of near institutionalization.

But compared to _this_ , everything else was just a regular Tuesday.

An ocean of people surrounded him. They waved and undulated to the music vibrating through the walls of the club. Heavy bass pounded ecstasy into their muscles. The chirps and drones of an electric chorus shocked their arms into the air. It deafened the world so that there was nothing but what you wanted, nothing but people throbbing between one another in a green, blue, and white laser light concert, sharing the same thrill of exhausting oneself with the power of music.

Multicolored lights rippled over the mosh pit swarming the dance floor. They strobed and streaked from one side of the club to the other where the D.J. furiously wrote his name into the night. Everything was hot and sticky, including the people. And there was touching. So much _touching_. Bodies bumped. Backs rubbed, but it wasn't the crowd that paralyzed John into rigid terror. It was the woman playing with him better than a stripper pole. John couldn't dance. He never liked to. The only time he tried was one cold snowy night on a platform decorated with white Christmas lights where Aria taught him the box step as he stepped on her toes. Now, he couldn't even manage that sequence.

Vermillion held back nothing. She grinded and teased with every curve and curl of her body, dictating the dance with every beat of music. Total control was her aim. Captivity a pleasant side effect. By the way she smiled and huffed, it was the only means to ecstasy. Her hips fell into John's. Her hands traced every seam of his black custom suit and crimson tie, leaving not a single means of escape.

God, help him.

Vermillion's eyes suddenly refocused. They narrowed in a seductive slit that slowly followed something along the outer rim of the crowd. John didn't notice because she lost none of her rhythm. He did tense, however, when she suddenly spun into his chest, put her arms around his neck, and slowed. A crimson nail twirled down the nape of John's neck to his thin red tie. She tucked it within his black vest.

"How's the shoulder?" she asked.

How Vermillion managed to talk let alone breathe after that routine was a miracle in and of itself. John didn't actually hear anything except the pounding electronic symphony in his ears. Luckily, the Polisher swept a hand across his shoulder, miming the purpose of her moving lips. John glanced down to it and the bandages hidden underneath.

"Good," he loudly shouted with a nod of his head. Vermillion snorted and dropped her chin to his chest in an unheard chuckle. She then smoothed out the edges of his vest and rubbed her hands along it.

"Better get you back before you break," she said.

John wasn't going to miss that opportunity even if he was deaf. He followed Vermillion through the gyrating crowd. She could have easily slipped through to the other side with those moves of hers. John on the other hand, was practically a wobbuffet on stilts. All the pushing, swaying, and leaning threatened to carry him away faster than a rip current. John quickly reached out and grabbed Vermillion's wrist. It was a childish motion, yes, but one that might insure his survival in this sea of glow sticks and liquor. Vermillion stopped and looked down at the five fingered plea. Despite its juvenile roots, the grip was as serious as a _hammer arm_. She traced it back up to John. A champagne bottle popped and he whipped over his shoulder with eyes wide enough to make the sound a gunshot. Vermillion teased out a smile.

"You wanna play follow the leader?" she asked. Her smiled pulled high enough to uncover a fang. It could have been the lights but something flashed in her eyes. "Alright."

Vermillion suddenly twisted her wrist, opening her palm and forcing John to do the same. She entwined their fingers and squeezed just hard enough so that John reflexively squeezed back. If he wanted to go hand by hand, she would do the same, but only if they played by her rules and they were as rough as the crowd. John struggled to keep his arm in his socket as Vermillion led them across the floor. The air was thick and heavy with body heat and alcohol. Motion and coordination danced between shadow and colored light in a dizzying display of foreplay. And then it hit John. What was this but an avoidance of arms, legs, and bodies in motion? It couldn't be much different than tumbling at the dojo.

A quick change of mindset and John came up behind Vermillion within seconds. She glanced at him from the side. The sudden wave of pressure from his approach propelled her forward and out of step with the next sequence of intricate physical footwork. But she didn't stumble. The crowd parted from them willingly. In fact, the path opened up clearly. John's sheer physical size and new found confidence, combined with her grace and maneuverability, unconsciously parted the sea of living obstacles. Vermillion refused to ride the wave guiding them. She broke through the crowd first, pulled John out next, and swung him around in front of her.

Their hands disconnected. John spun into a stumble while Vermillion swiveled around to a server in a plaid skirt and picked off two shot glasses from her serving tray. The server glanced back with a scowl but it instantly deflated against the identity of the thief. Vermillion curled up a lip and the server quickly continued on her way without a tip. She was lucky to escape with just a _mean look_. Either that, or Vermillion was in a dangerously good mood.

"Here," she said while extending a glass to John. "You'll need it."

Did he risk souring her mood? John took the glass, looked into its contents, and then back at Vermillion.

"Wait, why?" he asked.

Vermillion downed her shot with professional club etiquette and tossed the glass at John. He caught it in one hand.

"Follow me," she commanded. "And you'll find out." Her hips said the rest. Vermillion walked through a strobe of blue and white light towards a spiral staircase leading up to the VIP lounge above the ground floor. It reminded John of the Cage House except as a legal and sophisticated loft to watch the convulsions down below. He never reached higher than the bottom of a boot in either location. Did he dare go any higher? Vermillion stopped with one foot on the metal step. The two bouncers beside her not at all displeased with the view.

"Hurry up or we're going to miss all of the fun," she exclaimed.

She wasn't having fun yet? John really was in hell. Well, at least there was nowhere to fall when laying prostrate on the bottom of the food chain.

John threw back his shot. The recoil tossed him forward again in a fit of coughing. The heat of the tonic already burning his tender fleshy insides. Vermillion laughed and ascended the stairs to the VIP balcony. John dutifully followed behind, still rubbing his throat from the poison. Music continually thrummed in the background but at a much quieter beat. The sharp cold edges of the raving lights softened to smoother hues and shadows to better hide the VIPs and their extracurricular activities. Individual booths lined the back, each capable of drawing a sheer curtain for private affairs better kept out of the public eye. In front of them, a large open lounge gave the socialites a place to rest and recuperate from the sensual storm below.

Fully equipped with a bar in the back, the space had a bungalow like feel to it, if the sand was stained hardwood, the sea a dancing swarm of bodies, and the sun a black shadow that hid all the sin contained within. John's eyes adjusted to the shift, dilating wider than some of the users in the back booths. The lounge was as much of a Market as it was a hangout. What was a little fun without diamonds, glass bottles, and a several illegal substances? But the dealers must have already cashed in for the night because there was none left in the lounge. None save one and her customer. And she was no average street peddler . . .

Onyx sat in the center of the black leather couch. Her long coat melted her body into the surroundings. The lounge was as much a part of her as she was a part of it. Ibis laid beside her on the cushion. Both kept their eyes on the pair across the table from them. One man stood behind the couch, blocking the view of anything other than his Olympic sized body. His partner sat in the black knitted leather in front of him, eager yet devilishly patient at the same time. Together, they made quite the pair but it wasn't anything Onyx hadn't seen before.

"You want back in?" the Royal Jewel questioned. She resumed stroking Ibis as if going back to reading a book. "Find Ruby. That's his ball game, not mine."

"Actually, I was thinking of entering a few pokemon this time around," the voice in the chair replied.

Across the lounge, Vermillion stopped before she made it off of the stairs. She held up her hand for John to do the same but it wasn't needed. John stopped on his own accord. He recognized that roughly shaved crew cut and the platinum blonde mop glowing quite dashingly against the darkness. It was none other than Liam Valenis and Marcus Hailbringer occupying the couches.

Why in the world were _they_ here?

Liam casually crossed his legs, laid an elbow along the back of the couch, and smiled. Onyx harpooned it to the wall in a single blink of her snake thin eyes.

"Hell Raiser, a pokemon trainer? And I thought you were smart," she said, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. From behind the couch, Marcus dropped his arms from his chest in a tauros worthy flare of his nostrils. Never before in all of John's life had he seen Marcus take such disrespect and not draw blood. But then again, John had never seen a person capable of serving it to him either.

"Actually, I was talking about myself," Liam corrected.

Onyx's hand glided to a precursory stop along Ibis' mane. The suggestion may have come from a popstar but clearly Liam had a reputation powerful enough to land him a seat in front of a Royal Jewel. His party of pokemon was probably just as powerful.

"And who will be your sponsor, Ruby, me?" Onyx asked. She could have laughed but her personality was too frigid for that. "If you want to enter the Cage House, take it up with Sapphire. If you're good, you'll make it in on her team."

"Getting in is why I've come to _you_ ," Liam replied. "I'm sure you know that my current relationship with the Jewels is a little . . ."

"Fucked up?" Onyx interjected with a scratch of Ibis' head. The corner of the Jewel's lips curled ever so slightly like the horns of a demon.

Liam moved a little closer to the edge of his seat now that the real reason for business was on the table. "I need you to smooth things over with the other Jewels. I'd like to compete without having to worry about getting a bullet or a beedrill in the back. Leaving the Ring left things a little . . . _shaky_ with the two House Jewels."

"And why the hell would I help you?"

"Because," Liam sat back and reached into his pocket. Ibis growled with a lift of her mane. Onyx didn't stop her. Liam lifted one hand in defense and slowly pulled out his phone with the other. It glowed to life with a tap. A punch of the key code and Liam set the screen on the table facing the Jewel. Onyx looked at it while Liam observed her reaction. There was none.

At the stairs, John struggled to interpret the situation. He could see an exchange but they were too far away to hear the conversation over the music, per deliberate design of the lounge. Vermillion maintained a resting poker face during the silent affair. She knew Onyx far too long not to recognize that look in her eye. Black as she may be, a jewel still flashed in the right light, especially when it came to objects of unknown worth and origin. The two were trading something.

Onyx carved out the veins of this underground City with the ebb and flow of the Black Market. She stocked it with every manner of addiction, trinket, and pleasure, for the pure sake of skimming the top off of everything that came through. And when that didn't yield fresh fruit, a Polisher always supplemented the harvest. Vermillion's jobs alone were probably responsible for a fourth of Onyx's collection. But there were always deeper finds, deeper secrets unknown to anyone except those who wielded them. A family like the Valenis name with the entire history and wealth of a region behind it was bound to have something worth presenting.

The phone on the table glowed better than a crack in the lid of a treasure box. It was an irresistible lure for the most cutthroat pirate the region had ever seen. Onyx nonchalantly reached over and picked up the phone. Her lenses flashed with the digital reflection. Pictures filled the frames. They slid and shifted as she scrolled through the photos. The oldest depicted Liam outside of the club in his current outfit with an animator's smile, wink, and peace sign. Onyx ignored it and doubled back to the ones of interest, all different views of a single item.

"Where did you get this?" Onyx demanded. The harshness of impatience sharpened her tone. She was interested. Liam polished his smile with a touch of wit and laid back into the chair.

"I think the better question is, do you want it?" he said.

Onyx stopped on the initial photograph of a silver and blue feather propped up against an ornate wooden box. She set the phone back on the table.

"I remove the target on your back . . . ," she began.

"And I give you the other half to your _double team_ ," Liam finished with a glance to the phone. "So, do we have a deal?"

Onyx tipped her gaze over the frames of her glasses so that they sliced her gaze to a scyther's edge. She attempt to cut through the bullshit in front of her but couldn't get deep enough to draw suspicion. The glow of the phone was too bright to ignore. She let it hide her eyes and her thoughts. "The only target I remove is the one you earned in the Ring when you decided to play hooky," she suddenly offered. "Nothing before. Nothing after."

"And when the heat cools, the _Silver Wing_ is yours," Liam accepted. "Box, cloth, and all."

Onyx leaned back in her chair with a raise of the arm that allowed Ibis back into place. "Deal. But if you're smart enough to come to me, then you're smart enough to know that fucking _this_ up will cost you _your_ family jewels."

Liam uncomfortably shifted in both the metaphor and legitimacy of the statement. Onyx was capable of fulfilling both. It wasn't just his life and reputation on the line, but that of his entire family's. "Rest assured," Liam said as he stood up and fastened the button of his silver jacket. "If there's anything I aspire to be, it's a gentleman. You have my word. I'll make the arrangements."

Liam turned and walked to the side of the couch. Marcus adjusted his position to stand beside him, opening up the view across the lounge to the staircase. Vermillion straightened out of her lean with a subtle lift of her chin but Liam wasn't interested in taking the bait. His gaze landed on the man behind her. He smiled and Vermillion wanted to slap it off of his face. Liam turned back to Onyx.

"Is that the Pharaoh, I've heard so much about?" he asked with a point across the lounge. John stiffened harder at the gesture than he did on the dance floor. "Mind if we have a little chat?"

"Pack up your balls and get the hell outta my club," Onyx warned.

Before Liam could reply, Marcus abruptly left their company. He plowed his way across the upper echelon of society for the staircase. Liam quickly glanced back at him, picked his fedora off of the table, and flipped it into place on his head with a wink.

"As you wish," he obliged.

Onyx debated sicking Ibis after him but the playboy had already hopped away in chase of his larger half. Both were on a collision course with the pair already at the top of the staircase. John didn't move, not even with a near one ton monster stomping towards him. Recognition at odd moments of surprise like this tended to fasten one into place. Most murders also occurred between two people that knew one another. Fate worked quickly, but Vermillion's instinct worked even faster. She lifted her foot and stamped a heel onto the rail of the balcony, creating a wall between the two opposing forces. Marcus jerked to a stop against it. He then looked down at the rose branch blocking his path.

"Get outta my way," he demanded.

Vermillion lowered her leg and positioned herself to stand in front of John. "Why don't you make me?" she threatened right back.

Both needed no introduction although neither of them had formally met. Their company alone was enough to reveal their identities. Marcus clenched his hands into fists. Vermillion laid a hand on her hip and the other on her switchblade. John gulped down a hard swallow.

"Now, now, let's not get in over our heads," Liam suddenly interjected with a pat on the fighter's arm. His eyes shifted back and forth. "Now's not the time, nor the place."

John lifted slightly. The light of hope had finally broken through the cloudy haze of his current damnation. It burned into Vermillion's back. To relieve the heat, she fell back a step to stand alongside him. Or maybe it was John that stepped forward?

"Don't worry," Liam began again. He tipped his hat down to cut off part of his gaze. "We'll get our chance to fight in the Cage. Isn't that right, _Pharaoh_?"

John's smile dimmed. The hand that had reflexively gone to the nest ball on his belt sagged. Whatever he was thinking, whatever connection the two had had back in Boulder, was just sliced in two by those sharp steely gray eyes. This wasn't a rescue mission. It was a transaction. John's hope shattered so loudly that Vermillion could have winced. She also couldn't have been more relieved.

"We won't be able to face one another just yet, but maybe we'll see each other in the next tournament for Cage Champion," Liam said as he leaned in a little closer. "That's if you manage not to die in the process, right _Champ_?"

Liam roughly patted John on the chest. It shattered the trainer's soul rather than his bones, causing the light to flicker in his eyes like a broken lamp. Vermillion instantly grabbed Liam by the wrist, twisted it up, and shoved it back into his chest.

"Get your own," she snarled. The Polisher pressed into John and wrapped her arm around his. "You had your chance."

Marcus burned red. He advanced again, but this time, it was Liam who threw out his arm to stop him. "I couldn't help but notice you kept your distance during our little meeting, Vermillion," Liam redirected, hoping to cool his partner's fury with his smooth words.

Dropping in uninvited on a business deal with any Jewel was dangerous, but interrupting one that involved Onyx often left scars. Vermillion had several of her own. But more than that, jumping ahead of the game before all the pieces were on the table wasn't nearly as fun. "Sabotage isn't my style," Vermillion replied. "Besides, If I'm going to screw with somebody." She glanced at John and then Liam. "I'm going to do it up close and personal."

Liam chuckled. "Seductively scary as always," he said with another tip of the hat that blocked out his gaze completely. He then released it, tucked a hand into his pocket, and nodded. "I'll leave you too it then." He glanced at Marcus briefly, caught Vermillion's piercing stare one more time, and avoided John's all together. As quickly as they had appeared, Marcus and Liam disappeared down the stairs. Vermillion pulled away from John to watch. As easily as Big Red had cast John into hell, Liam had abandoned John to the blood hungry mightyena stalking the lounge behind them. All without acknowledging a shred of John's recognition regarding their history together.

Liam Valenis was capable of surviving in this world after all.

Vermillion huffed out the enlightenment and turned to John again. He stood there, doe eyed and in shock beside her. She didn't quite understand the relationship between Liam and him but its pattern was like all the others she had witnessed: sacrifice the pawn to save the king. Good or bad, it didn't matter what side you were on. Poor soul never saw it coming. Betrayal wasn't harsh for people like her but an expected arrangement. But for a champion of naivety like him . . .

John carefully lowered his eyes to the floor. He stared at it for a while, until somewhere in his thoughts Vermillion and his dire situation returned to present thought. He quickly lifted his gaze, scratched the back of his head, and pretended that he wasn't just utterly disavowed by everyone he knew.

"Sorry," he laughed. "I keep my head in the clouds sometimes."

Vermillion puckered her lips. "You suck at lying," she exclaimed.

John only smiled harder. He made it seem so easy.

"So I've been told."

And at this rate, it would be the death of him. Either that, or Onyx, or the Cage, or his own God forsaken houndoom. Vermillion frowned, walked over to one of the tables, snatched up two crystal glasses with one hand, and the neck of a black labeled whiskey bottle with the other. She held both low against her hips for added sway and returned to John's side.

"Let's get the fuck outta here," she growled. "This music's giving me a headache."


	33. Gods and Gangsters: 4

**Gods and Gangsters: 4**

For a light weight, John sure could hold his liquor. Vermillion trailed behind the ace as he meandered down the hallway. It took half of a bottle and far too much coaxing before John managed to reach a state of inebriation that Vermillion could enjoy. Even then, he was still more coherent than the first time they met in Boulder. Whoever his bar buddy was, they must have had more brandy than blood in their veins. John swayed down the hallway, sliding into a lean that bumped his shoulder into the wall. He ricocheted off of it with a spin that put him in a backwards walk facing Vermillion.

Drunk, sober, forward, or backward, the sad sack of a Blood Ace still obediently made his way back to his cage. For the most part. John tripped and fell backwards. Vermillion sighed, but to her surprise, John didn't stop. His fall transitioned into an over the shoulder roll that popped him up on his feet again. Normally, Vermillion didn't offer to play babysitter for a drunkard, but this one was turning out to be quite entertaining.

"Nice trick," she said.

John suddenly jerked to a halt. He looked at Vermillion, frowned, and started after the buttons on his vest. It took several tries but eventually, he managed to unfasten them. And once that line ended, he continued with the one behind it. With the vest dangling from one arm, John pulled his long sleeved shirt apart.

"Now _that's_ even better," Vermillion exclaimed with a long glance down her carnival prize. "I'd like to know who taught you that one."

John took off his shirt, exposing his undershirt and torso where the fabric had pulled up. Fresh bandages wrapped his abdomen and ribs. They were too neat and clean to be the work of the clinic doctor. John must have administered them himself. The style looked exactly the same as the bandages Hell Raiser wore in his shirtless performances in the Ring. Vermillion didn't remember John obtaining any new injuries at the club and she knew he was free of any physical pain. His daily dose of painkillers and enhancers came straight from Onyx's medical branch, Black Tag, and they made more clinical progress than any legitimate research institution in the region. He must have wrapped them out of habit.

Interesting, so John and Hell Raiser were connected after all.

Was that how he found his way to the bottom of the Royal Jewel's roster? Did he try to follow in Hell Raiser's footsteps only to find the shoes too big to fill, or did he attempt to steal the fighter's glory and became mincemeat in the process? Vermillion leaned towards the latter of the two. Hell Raiser looked like he wanted to smash John into chum when they saw each other at the club. She had questions about the encounter which only spawned more unanswered assumptions, but playing detective in a game of possibilities had its own rewards. Vermillion salivated just thinking about them. In fact, she was so focused on what the future could hold that she lost track of the present until it came up behind her. John draped his black shirt over Vermillion's shoulders. She whirled around and quickly pushed him backwards.

"What the hell are you doing?" she snapped.

John pointed a wobbly finger at the skin on her arm. "You're cold," he explained as clearly as his inebriation would allow.

Vermillion swatted John's hand away. Just because she wore pants with her bustier didn't mean she was cold, although, the goosebumps on her shoulders indicated otherwise. Underground tunnels like these tended to emphasize proper ventilation, especially when the cargo moving through them often threatened to blow up at the wrong humidity levels.

"I don't need your chivalry," Vermillion barked. She yanked the cape from her shoulders and shoved it back at John's chest. "Take it back!"

John looked down at the shirt, furrowed his brow, and pushed it forward again with a dead eye stare into Vermillion's scowl.

"No," he flatly declined.

Vermillion's jaw would have dropped if it hadn't been clenched in a snarl. She countered with another shove. "I said: _put it on_."

John pushed back with a pout of his own two lips.

"No!"

They struggled in a game of tug-o-war for a few seconds before Vermillion barred her teeth, let go of the shirt, and swung around in a roundhouse kick. John caught it by the lower leg and ankle. Vermillion's hair bounced to a stop as sharply as her gasp. She quickly pulled her leg free. John released her as if it were a curtesy. Now, it was a matter of pride. Vermillion launched forward. John ducked against a crimson clawed _fury swipe_. He leaned and pivoted to avoid several other of the Polisher's attempts at dismemberment that eventually backfired and spun her into his chest with the grace of a waltz. John held Vermillion against him with her arms in an "X" over her chest. He then put his head on her shoulder in a sleepy sigh, the weight of the night, and the alcohol, catching up to him.

His six foot height, broad chest, and long muscular arms entombed Vermillion against him. It was an embrace worthy of a set of protective wings. Tender, powerful, and completely out of her control. Vermillion's cheeks flushed as bright as her hair. She broke free of the hold with a snarl. John straightened with no resistance. He swayed, meeting another high heeled kick that aimed to cut him in half at the chest. One spin cleared it. A second caught another advance moving twice as fast. Fueled with infuriation, the next strike would be three times that speed and even he might not be able to catch it. Not from this position anyway.

John stepped in faster than a hitmonlee's strike, grabbed Vermillion by the thigh mid kick, and spun her down onto the floor. He pinned her without effort, the red curls fanning out underneath them. Not a single lock was disturbed in the landing softer than an altaria's wing. John pinned one of Vermillion's arms across her chest. It was a finger stretch short of reaching her pokebelt. He kept the other, and the open switchblade clenched within, pinned above her head. Vermillion's cheeks remained flushed against her labored breathing. Her wide eyes stared into John's, searching for some kind of explanation to this sudden lapse of ineptitude.

For someone who was supposed to be sloppy and clumsy when sporting a blood alcohol level worthy of incarceration, he was more coordinated than ever. Not many men could best Vermillion in close combat. They either underestimated her skill or hesitated under the touch of her skin. But not this one. Not this doofus currently in a position to break her arm and walk straight out off the nearest exit. He could leave and no one would be able to stop him.

"This is your chance," Vermillion said. Her lips firm and thinly pressed. "Take it."

John looked into the green eyes boldly willing him to freedom. He then slowly turned down from them. Vermillion followed his gaze, and together, they looked at the second pokebelt riding her waist. Despite John's obedience, she wasn't about to let him carry outside of the complex, especially at a club scene. But then again, when he had his pokemon, it wasn't like he used them for anything other than what they told him to do anyway. In the Cage, in the training room, in the dungeon with Onyx, there was never a thought of rebellion or an act of defiance. Granted, if there had been, Onyx had standing orders to kill John and take his houndoom on the spot. But right now, if John wanted his pokemon so badly, he could have ripped them off of her waist in the first spin of their dance. But he didn't.

Why?

Vermillion relaxed into the powerful hold above her.

"Why won't you run?" she asked. Her voice had lost its edge, making the question sound much quieter than she intended.

John glanced back up at her. Sincerity softened his eyes. He smiled quietly, but heavily.

"Because," he replied in a moment of sobering clarity. "I have nowhere else to go."

Vermillion looked at him in silence. It was a confession most criminals understood clearly. Even for a Polisher as hard and rough as Vermillion. They all had their sins, a darkness within that kept them out of the brighter side of the world. But somehow, when it came to John, it didn't feel quite the same. Hopeful and hopeless all at the same time. For people like her, it was only the latter. And for people like John, it should have been the former. Crossing the lines only made things confusing. John's elbow buckled. He slumped halfway onto Vermillion, releasing his grip, and rolling onto the floor next to her as an apology. They stared into the ceiling for a while, counting tiles and how many lives they each had left.

"She's going to take him. You know that, right?" Vermillion eventually said.

It was only a matter of time until Onyx had the houndoom in her grasp. And once she had him, there would be no room for anything else.

John held out one arm over Vermillion. The sleeves of his black collared shirt grazed her ribs. Vermillion looked at it, sighed, and snatched it out of his hand. She then sat up and put it on. A toss of her head adjusted the bouquet of curls flowering from her shoulders. John silently watched and Vermillion did everything she could not to look at him, because if she did, she might just give him a reason to wear those bandages, and he couldn't afford a handicap during tomorrow's fight. She then stood up and John followed but he misjudged the distance and they bumped chest to chest. Vermillion quickly shoved him back to the floor. By the time he collected himself, she had resumed the usual plump and pucker to her lips.

"How'd a punk like you score a pokemon like that anyway?" she asked.

"I didn't," John corrected as Vermillion pushed him in the direction they were supposed to have gone twenty minutes ago. "He came to me."

And here it came, the gushy romanticism of an innocent.

"I've known him my whole life," John continued. "We're best friends."

Vermillion rolled her eyes so far back in her head that she saw her ghost pokemon. She immediately regretted the question as tales spewed from John's mouth faster than the plot of a chick-flick. Sneaking a glimpse into his past would have been nice, but not enduring _all_ twenty something years of it. Mountain climbing this, pokemon hugging that, blah blah _blah_ _blah_ blah. The yammering was endless. It never stopped. Not when she left him behind to sneak into the key coded doors or when he nearly fell down the stairs while walking backwards. Not a yelp or curse could distract his tongue long enough to interrupt the perpetual stream of praises, adorations, and less than amusing inside jokes. Ordering John to shut up only spawned more embellishments. Refuting anything he claimed inspired more verbal proof. Sarcasm was Vermillion's only way of coping with it.

"Well, this _Aria_ sure sounds _amazing_ ," the Polisher droned while throwing open the door to John's room and practically dragging him inside.

"She wasn't amazing, she was terrifying," John corrected as he sauntered into the cell. Vermillion saw a ray of silent hope as he angled for the bed but the blood ace suddenly whirled around again as if remembering something. One more word and she might just knock his teeth out. To John's benefit, he didn't actually say anything. He only looked down at the pokeball that had magically filled his hand. Vermillion saw it and slapped a hand against her hip.

The bastard. When did he pinch that?

John attempted to press the release on the ball but his finger veered off to the side. Assuming distance was the problem, he brought the ball closer to his face and poked the release. Saul materialized on the floor. Vermillion couldn't get too upset about the pickpocketing. Onyx said John could keep his belt and pokemon on him when in his chambers. So, _technically_ , it wasn't a big deal, except for the fact that he just pulled one over on the greatest thief this city had ever hired. Not too shabby. And for some reason, two wide tentacruel plush doll eyes came to mind. Vermillion smiled as she remembered that colorful night in Boulder.

Con the con artist and win the top shelf prize.

For John, it was his pokemon. The trainer bent down and kissed Saul on the head. He may not know where to go but he sure knew what he wanted. And he wasn't afraid to get it. No matter how dangerously frivolous it may have been. He just needed a little push in the right direction, and Saul was only too willing to get him there. In reaction to the kiss, the snake lifted his tail and swept John's feet out from underneath him. The trainer fell sideways in a beautiful crescent of idiocy that landed him in a hard fall across the stone. Vermillion laughed, something she hadn't done in a long time. John winked open an eye, propped up on an elbow, and watched Saul slither past him for the blanket in the corner.

"I think he's starting to like me," he said.

Vermillion dropped her hands in a sigh, walked over to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and threw it in John's face.

"Go to sleep," she demanded, the traces of a chuckle still on her lips. John rolled to the side, tucked the pillow under his arm, and closed his eyes. "Not on the floor, dumbass." But the words went unheard. John was already fast asleep. Party hard, crash even harder. He probably wouldn't remember much of their conversation in the hallway.

Vermillion shook her head as she looked down at the trainer. With his back to the door, a hateful pokemon in the corner, and his belt still in her hands, John was begging for a backstabbing. She could put her hands all over him and he'd never know a thing. Never before had vulnerability been so widely perfected than in him. Vermillion unhooked the extra pokebelt from her waist and held it up so that it dangled at full length. The balls fastened within seemed cemented into place.

Maybe that's what they called trust?

Vermillion lowered the belt and walked a little closer. A slow rattle stirred itself into motion. Vermilion looked over at Saul in the corner. _Really_? After that little performance, now he wanted to play protective pokemon?

"Don't get your scales in a knot," Vermillion sneered. She abandoned her advance and tossed the belt onto the cot. She looked back at the ekans snuggled in the nest made for him and solely him. "Happy?"

The snake quieted but kept his eyes on her. Vermillion sucked her teeth in a retreat that brought her to the door. She closed it, stopping an inch from the frame to sneak a peek into the corner. Saul lightly massaged his tail over the spot on his head where John had kissed him, activating the scent so it would help him fall asleep. The fucking cat. Vermillion huffed, closed the door without a sound, and froze with her hand still on the handle.

She wasn't the only one still awake.

Skittering feet tapped against the stone like dropping toothpicks. They paused, picking up again seconds later like the prickling of hair along the back of Vermillion's neck. She sharpened her fangs on enough fear and surprise to know an assassin when she heard one. Vermillion stared into the door, her eyes piercing dimensions, her experience in murder creating a mirror to view the pokemon behind her. An ariados skittered in a diagonal across the wall behind Vermillion. It stopped, watching her until rubbing his incisors together and disappearing back into the shadows further along the corridor. He disappeared and the corridor went quiet once more.

Vermillion exhaled slowly. The spider wasn't here _for_ her but _because_ of her. Leaving John in the dungeon meant leaving John in Onyx's care, or more accurately, her surveillance. He'd be fine until morning, as long as he didn't wander. Vermillion readjusted John's collared shirt to soothe the goosebumps that had grown on her skin.

It was too fucking cold in this dungeon. Vermillion looked down the darkened corridor and released Crooks and Jinx. They floated beside her in flaming orbs of smoke. At least now, she could warm herself with the illusion of flame while heading back into the darkness. She wrapped the black shirt tightly around her. . . John's shirt also helped.


	34. Gods and Gangsters: 5

**Gods and Gangsters: 5**

"Dear John, I heard about your match the other night. Feathers look good on you. Keep the faith."

That was the message scribbled across the secret note John found in the pocket of his vest this morning. The very same pocket Liam had patted in farewell at the club last night.

Too bad it wasn't very inspiring. The little winky face sporting a thumbs up, cartoon wings, and a halo at the bottom was a nice touch though.

John wasn't exactly sure what Liam meant by the message but the hopeful innuendo made it seem like the conversation they had at the club wasn't what John first thought it was. Whether the Valenis heir intended a rescue, buy out, or fight out, John only wished it had come sooner. A guardian angel couldn't save him now, not from the depths of hell. Especially, when the demons inside roared louder than the clacking tiles of the Cage gambling board. All bets were in:

"Pharaoh vs. Kronos. 50/50"

At least, fate had given him half a chance.

John stood outside of his entrance gate, immobile even when Vermillion walked up and slapped him on the shoulder. "Do you like the theme this week?" she asked with a vertical glance along his figure. Sheeted in a tunic with a crescent necklace accenting his collar bone, John was the spitting image of an Egyptian prince. Sheer cape and makeup included.

"I look ridiculous," he announced with an adjustment of the leather bracers on his forearms. They were the only thing somewhat natural and less ridiculous than the rest of his costume. Now, that the House officially recognized him as a contender, they demanded a proper show.

"Personally, I like the eyeliner," Vermillion said. "Hides the hangover bags under your eyes."

"The _fluids_ I got this morning were more than enough to clear my head," John tartly replied. Tonight, there would be no pain. No inkling of physical weakness. No limit to his techniques. In fact, he was starting to forget what they were.

"Just be lucky it was you and not your pokemon," Vermillion answered just as smartly. "I heard Black Tag's working on some nasty shit."

John looked down at Vermillion. She tossed her eyebrows, indicating she might be trying to scare him . . . or not. The metal gate swung open, spurring the crowd into another octave. The Cage House shook with stomping feet and clapping hands. It was time to go in.

"Crack that whip, Pharaoh," Vermillion said with a squeezing slap on John's ass. He hopped into the spotlight and away from her smirk. A simple 'good luck' would have sufficed. The Cage door slammed shut with a click of the lock behind him. As a trainer, John had never been good enough or well-endowed enough to wear a costume during a match. Now painted in teal and gold with a coating of body oil, he didn't realize how blessed he truly was, but at least he wasn't the only cliché walking into the Cage tonight. His opponent, Kronos, apparently had a sponsor just as imaginative as the colored criminal popping gum from the sidelines. Kronos wore a much more regal tunic, completely white and folded like the robes of a marble statue complete with golden laurels. Blood Ace or League Runner, trainer fashion bled through any jurisdiction.

The match was two on two. Kronos released his pokemon so that they materialized at the same time: a magneton and a sandslash. Zeus and Achilles were their respective names. It wasn't hard to figure out why. The one sparked in gusto for the crowd. The other sharpened his bladed claws in a swipe against one another. John looked down at the two pokeballs in his hands.

Horns first. Right?

The friend ball popped open in a snap and Lopo took center stage. His head started low, the predisposition that he should materialize into a fight already infecting his character. The crowd heightened in an _uproar_. If John lost this match, he'd likely be killed by his opponent or maybe even his sponsor. If he won, something just as precious might die. John squeezed the ball into minimization with eyes on the houndoom. He couldn't keep doing this. Not for much longer. Not without inflicting permanent damage on the souls of his pokemon. John looked into his second pokeball. He was tempted not to open it knowing what might happen to the pokemon inside should he fail or win. The pokemon inside wasn't like Athena, Lopo, or even Marco, but then again, that's exactly why John needed him for this match up. Onyx be damned.

"Let's show'em how it's done, Charles," John said before he released the energy inside. It streamed out and never stopped as the linoone materialized into a run. He darted back and forth in front of John, forcing Lopo to lift his head as the bushy tail whipped him in the face. There was a shift in the background. A low level 'boo'ing chastised Pharaoh's party decision. Tiles on every gambling board in the House suddenly rattled with new odds faster than a line of dominos. The fresh round of bets compounded into a wave of social pressure that now predicted Pharaoh's official entombment. John sighed out a short smile.

Now, that felt much more like it. His shoulders weren't used to the weight of winning. Unfortunately, Kronos' were.

The buzzer went off and Zeus, the magneton, already had an attack _thrumming_ in his crossbars. The metal poles vibrated ever so slightly as they reached the peak of a _magnet bomb_. An invisible pulse of energy rippled out across the Cage. The magnetic pull threatened to rip the pokeballs out of John's hands, but it wasn't towards the magnet pokemon. It was the entire Cage itself that polarized. Lopo attempted to move but all four paws remained firmly planted on the floor.

At first, he didn't understand why until several tugs and no movement later pinpointed his immobilization to specific spots on his body. The _magnet bomb_ had energized the heavy metallic content of his boney armor. It turned his anklets into cufflinks, his ribbed back plating a yoke, and his horns a one ton weight over his head. This was a preemptive attack, one tailored to target the metallic compounds of the houndoom's armor. Something so illegally specialized could only be found in the Black Market.

Onyx's market.

Just as Vermillion predicted, the Royal Jewel was coming for him.

Lopo's neck forcibly dropped under the weight of his horns. It took everything he had to stay standing. He suddenly found himself paralyzed by his own arsenal.

Achilles, the sandslash, unsheathed his own weapons. With two well aimed cuts, he planned to dice up John's heavy artillery first. Then, pick off the puff ball afterwards. The sandslash charged. His clawed toes blurred in a sprint across the Cage. Two unwavering black eyes aimed to swallow the canine surging into view. But what he didn't realize was that there was no pokemon better at rushing in than a linoone. Charles cut across Achilles' path. The sandslash jerked to a stop to avoid a collision and glanced to the side just fast enough to catch the rushing pokemon's second pass in the opposite direction. He swiped and missed. Charles rushed behind him, causing the mouse pokemon to spin with another empty swing.

At this speed, Charles would catch an opening if ignored. Achilles wrenched out of his stratagem and chased after the linoone. A game of tag ensued. Back and forth. That's all it was and yet Achilles grew dizzy just trying to keep up. Laser lines guided the rushing pokemon's paws. Never bothering to stop or turn, they perfected themselves by rebounding off of the bars of the Cage. From the front or the back, there was no telling if Charles would pass from the left or the right with each pivot. His sleek long body sheared back and forth across the platform like a giant swinging axe in a haunted house. Traveling in slow motion compared to this marvel of speed, Achilles couldn't risk moving more than a few inches without being swept off of his feet or taken by surprise. A living barrier rose up between the sandslash and houndoom, cutting them off from one another. But the canine didn't need close range combat to fight.

Lopo finally managed to raise his head against the magnetic pull holding him in place. His eyes turned up to the magneton. His lips followed. It wouldn't be long until the canine compensated for the weight and opened his mouth in a fiery blast. Zeus quickly released the _bomb_ and sparked into an _electric terrain_. Electricity popped between the polar ends of his magnetic bars. It buzzed into short fine threads that wiggled themselves stiff with increasing power and stability. Down below, Charles ran across Achilles' path again, cutting the sandslash short of another advance. He'd go for a double diagonal trajectory next and push the mouse back, but as the linoone leapt onto the bars for another rebound, he popped off in a squeak. The _terrain_ charged the metal dome better than an electric fence.

Lopo swayed in the sudden energy shift, no longer bound but now desperately trying to compensate for the change in stress on his body. Achilles had seconds before the canine joined the fight, and in those seconds, he'd remove the pest clogging up the real battle. Charles had to go. The sandslash took off in another sprint, this time, straight for the linoone. Charles slid to a stop beneath Zeus. The magneton hovered away from him and the shifting tides of battle. Lopo refused to be swept away in the current. He steadied all four paws on the ground and looked up. Achilles had his back to him, distracted by Charles still recovering from the electrocution. Zeus was in retreat. Both enemies were wide open. Charles wouldn't be able to evade the enemy coming for him. Neither would the magneton hovering so heavily in space. It was an even trade.

A pokemon for a pokemon.

Lopo flickered out of sight.

Across the platform, Charles rolled onto his belly. Both ears perked against the soft scuff of a foot lifting from the platform, a sound he had memorized at the dojo. An attack was coming. He glanced up. Achilles' shadow fell over him, the mouse pokemon's claws already pulled back in a _slash_. He brought down the sharpened two clawed axe. It suddenly jolted off course as Lopo rammed into Achilles' shoulder from the side. Charles ducked as the mouse flew over him, ruffling his fur. The houndoom settled. Several dark droplets of blood patted loudly on the white floor beside his paws. Broken quills followed. Although caught unawares, all sandslash had an automatic defense system, a cloak of sharpened quills. Lopo stepped backwards with a tuck of his neck into his body. Whatever quills had not skirted the boney head crest or broke against his horns, had lodged themselves into his muzzle and head. Lopo tried to shake and paw them out, leaving a spotted trail of blood in his retreat.

Charles glanced across the Cage. Achilles was slow to get up. One arm hung unnaturally from its socket, the shoulder shattered to pieces. Magneton floated over his partner. He spun once, generating sparks from his magnetic ends. They snaked and coiled into thick bolts, and when the energy peaked, they lashed outwards in an ear splitting buzz. The crowd flinched in a scream as several lightning bolts danced across the Cage better than a tesla coil. Most of the bolts curled upwards towards the bars, moving and hopping between the metal netting in a dozen disastrous fingers.

John and Kronos dropped to the floor to avoid them. The humming white hot threads stretched across the Cage. Glowing red trails followed their paths. One highly powered bolt hopped down to the platform. Attracted to a different conductor, it ran across Lopo's ribbed back. He barked in the shock, jumping sideways in a wild spray of fire. Blinded by the blood in his eyes, he didn't see the flames streak across the entirety of the Cage. John covered his head with his hands and ran through the inferno like one running a finger through a candle. The flames then veered towards the Greek pantheon.

Magneton hurriedly moved out of reach. Achilles endured the wave. A _safeguard_ pulsed from his quill tips, counteracting the sharp stinging bite of the flames. He then slashed his way through them as another hum vibrated the arena in a second _Magnet Bomb_. Lopo came to a cold standstill near the side of the Cage. The weight of his armor suddenly a yoke again, snapping of the flames in a drop of his head. One wrong shift of balance and he'd be dragged to the floor, giving Achilles the chance to gut him like a quilfish. Lopo winked open an eye. Red tear stains bled down his face. The details were fuzzy but the image was the same.

He was helpless to stop the attack from coming.

Achilles was injured but he still had one good sword drawn. And that's why Charles ran away from him towards the Cage dome. He leapt onto the bars, taking the shock better than the stings of a disturbed beedrill nest. He climbed with clenched teeth, gaining speed until he was high enough to throw himself onto Zeus. The magneton sagged with the sudden burden. His dead eyes turned upward at the clanging _fury swipes_ knocking from above. They barely scratched the polish but it was enough to distract the magnet pokemon, weaken the _bomb,_ and lighten the houndoom's load so the canine could fight back.

Lopo ducked to the side. Achilles' claw clipped the edge of his horns. A shard spun off in the opposite direction. The two bangaled paws swinging into a back kick worthy of a ponyta moved even faster. They struck Achilles in the chest and he bounced backwards. Lopo whirled around. He gained momentum to launch into another attack, but as his horns passed the Cage dome, the current within the metal caught the lingering polarization of his armor. They clanked together in an electrified fusion.

Lopo yanked backwards but his head wouldn't budge. He tried again more furiously, scratching his claws against the platform and writhing his body but the junction was too strong. He couldn't pull away from the metal. Curses dribbled from his mouth in the form of flame and smoke. He was stuck, utterly exposed, and everyone in the House knew it. The crackle of another _thunder shock_ flashed across the Cage. Magneton shrugged off the hair ball on top of him. Charles hit the floor again. Smoke coiled off of his fur. The tips were brittle and blackened. He lifted half an eye to the pitter patter of rushing feet. Yet another sound he knew all too well. Achilles was up again. He rushed for the disabled Lopo. The houndoom couldn't move let alone fight back and John couldn't enter the fight.

Charles was the only one who could stop the worst from happening.

The linoone lifted to his feet, scrambling to keep his pride as a rushing pokemon. He ran up side by side with the sandslash, unable to pull ahead. Achilles' sneered a chuckle as they raced. Charles barred his teeth in a growl and then threw himself in a _tackle_ against the mouse. Achilles tripped over him and the two tumbled just out of reach of the houndoom. Charles spun to a stop. The quills embedded in his skin swayed in place. Achilles bumped into him, causing the quills to sway again.

The sandslash then scrambled to his feet, grabbed the linoone in a two handed _crush claw_ , and threw him across the Cage. Several quills broke in the bounce. One or two dislodged and several others remained partially broken in the rushing pokemon's thick coat. Blood began seeping to the surface. A distant burst of flame turned Achilles away from the fallen. He clutched his wounded arm in a heavy pant. There was no need for Kronos or his pokemon to rush or worry now. Charles wasn't getting up and the houndoom wasn't going anywhere. Lopo screamed another _flamethrower_ but the angle of his head wouldn't even create a recoil current off of the floor. The burst ended, leaving the bars, part of the floor, and his dignity, charred.

Having already lost a lung to those shackled back paws, Achilles kept his distance. He shuffled to the side to make room for Zeus as the magnet pokemon floated down beside him. Both took a moment to watch the whites of the houndoom's eyes rim his fury. Lopo tugged and thrashed so hard that the Cage rattled. It shuddered violently from a throaty snarl. Still, he could not break free. Magneton sparked and crackled. It almost sounded like laughter. This was better than shooting magikarp in a barrel. Electricity began at the tips of his bars and gathered at his center mass. A field of energy rippled around him, condensing into a _zap cannon_. There was no avoiding, stopping, or countering it from either party.

That's why Charles redirected it.

In one last leap of his shaking legs, the rushing pokemon jumped and grabbed the magnet pokemon by the bottom bar. His long heavy body jerked the hovering _cannon_ at its peak, so that as it released and Achilles turned to look in surprise, it _zapped_ the sandslash straight in the face. There were no type advantages in point blank range at maximum power. The electrified beam blew Achilles onto his back. He slid across the floor, rigged and stiff with _paralysis_. A big red "X" flashed under Kronos' name. The buzzer blared with the KO.

Magneton spun to remove the parasite latched onto him. His smooth body prevented a foothold and Charles flung off after several rotations. In the time it took to remove the linoone, Lopo finally managed to yank his head free, stripping the screws out of the metal joints of the wall. But the effects of the _electric terrain_ and _magnet bomb_ were still in effect, feeding one another when Zeus did not. Lopo's head remained tilted. His legs wobbled. He struggled to compensate for the pull of his anklets and head to the floor, especially after all the thrashing trying to set himself free. His impatience to rejoin the fight only destabilizing his senses even further. Magneton spun to a stop. He was now the only target left on the field, with a type disadvantage and long withheld vendetta against him. The magnet pokemon panicked and _bombed_ the cage again.

It caught Lopo mid step. He collapsed heavily to the floor, stuck on his side, unable to scrape his anklets along the floor at this angle. Magneton silently chuckled by twisting his magnetic bars at their base. He lowered closer to the floor. The pull of his own body now caught in the _bomb_ , but unlike the canine, he could still dodge should Lopo try another fire based attack. The dark pokemon huffed out several curses of hot smoke. They were useless. There was no way they would reach Zeus.

That was, until two paws placed themselves on the living god's steel body.

They were weak and gentle, unnoticeable until a half unconscious Charles leaned forward in a gentle push that dropped him to the floor and glided Magneton right in front of the houndoom. Lopo hurled out a f _lame blast_. It slapped over Zeus in a plasma like splash of fire. Sparks of electricity accelerated the volatile compounds and Zeus exploded in an ear splitting blast that threw John against the bars, Charles across the platform, and Kronos through his entryway door.

A concussion hit the crowd, throwing back clothes and concessions. The blast blinded several, deafened most, and made the second "X" under Kronos' name flash silently. Lopo growled.

And that was only a spitball.

John lifted out of the clearing smoke. His heavy necklace and cape long since abandoned after the first spout of unpredicted flame. He pulled himself to his feet, spotted Charles, and jogged over. The linoone had finally feinted. John was tempted to laugh despite the cool tears filling his eyes. Charles may not have been the strongest or the fastest pokemon, but like his trainer, he had guts and could take a beating better than any other wimp out there.

John quickly gathered him up in one arm. He then glanced over to Lopo who still struggled against his personal restraints. The _magnet bomb_ and _electric terrain_ were still in effect despite the pokemon himself being defeated. With the constant pull still against him, the canine had yet to realize that the battle was over. He could not see or hear who was still left on the field. John crossed the Cage, jumping over the charred hunk of scrap that was once a pokemon. He felt the heat radiating from the metal.

It only grew hotter the closer he came to Lopo.

John came up from behind and along the houndoom's back. Lopo had managed to roll onto his belly but couldn't move his ankles underneath him, just like a baby four legged pokemon. Well versed in the position, John slipped his free arm around the canine's waist and hoisted him up. The moment all four feet were on the floor, Lopo bucked, the touch unfamiliar and unwanted. John caught it in his hips. He fell backwards, clutching Charles to his chest. The vibration of the fall ran up the canine's still overly sensitive bracelets. Knowing his attacker now off guard, Lopo spiraled with a _flamethrower_ hot on his lips. His barbed tail dragged, catching something in the turn. Good. His flaming jaws would finish off the rest.

There was a burst of fire, light, and a yelp. It was a sharp _familiar_ sound that alerted the houndoom of danger to his fellow party members. Lopo immediately came to a stop and lifted his head. His eyes furiously darted around the Cage for the thing that dared go behind his back and attack his team, only to find John on the floor in front of him, clutching a battered linoone to his chest and staring at him in as much shock as betrayal. Lopo's tail fell limp. He noticed a cut across the trainer's arm. It had bled profusely until the 2nd degree burns from the flames had cauterized it shut. Red and black painted the lower half of John's arm down into the middle of his palm.

Lopo glanced away. He looked for some excuse to justify the injury but found their enemies already beaten. The Cage door was closed and the only one left standing was himself. The damage, the danger he so feared . . . was because of him.

And him alone.

The canine's eyes widened. He labored to breath. He retreated lightly, his nose burning with the smell of John's blood and burnt flesh. But he couldn't out run it, not when it stained the sharp edge of his tail. Looking for an escape, Lopo turned to the Cage and the crowd. People. There were so many people. Missing yellowed teeth, wild frenzied eyes, they climbed and danced around the barriers, trying to find their way in to worship the devil capable of killing gods. Lopo's heart raced even faster. His pupils dilated. He stepped back. His hackles rose.

What if they made it in?

Would he have to fight them too?

Would he have to kill them?

A heavy weight suddenly answered the question. Lopo closed his eyes against it, only to open them again and find John's hand on his head. It didn't pet. It didn't stroke. It didn't give a little scratch behind the ears and yet its mere presence was enough to wipe away the panic as easily as a speck of ash. It covered every thought, every fear, blacking out everything except the person behind it. John didn't look at the canine as he slowly got to his feet. He did not grab the horn and he did not use it as a crutch. Once standing, John silently lifted his hand away and walked towards the gate. It was then that Lopo realized that the hand once on his head was the same one he had defiled. It had the acrid smell of flesh, burnt not just by a flame but a curse, a houndoom's curse. A burn from a houndoom blackened the soul and a wound as deep as that could not every fully heal. Only inflict pain.

John would feel the heat of that scar forever.

Lopo folded back his ears. He tucked in his tail, shrinking against the praises of the crowd. Afraid of being left alone with them, Lopo quickly trotted after John. He nervously came to a stop behind the trainer at the gate. The two grunts on the other side hesitated to open it. Electricity still ran through the metal. Anyone who touched it would be electrocuted until the energy could be discharged by the Cage operators. John reached through the bars, grabbed the handle through the pop of an electroshock, and opened the door himself without ever breaking his gaze or his grip on Charles. The two grunts at the door stepped back. John didn't look at them. He walked out of the Cage, his stride as powerful as the light in his eyes. No one stopped him.

Lopo had to trot to keep up. He looked up, following the shadow of the trainer's back that had grown to the size of a mountain, one Lopo could not climb. Others attempted to scale the peak, scrambling to catch up as they rushed along the sideline beside the pair. The shift in the Blood Ace's demeanor was so sudden and unanticipated that John managed to meet Onyx and her lieutenant as they walked by the entrance tunnel, oblivious to the match and its results. John stood in front of them. The weight of his abrupt appearance put Onyx to a stop. She fell behind her lieutenant as he stepped defensively in front of her with a hand to his pokebelt.

Two other grunts suddenly came up to support them. Pokeballs, pokemon, and batons in hand. Vermillion ran up from behind. She stopped a few feet away and released Jinx and Crooks. They flanked her should John prove to be as dangerous as he looked. Lopo pulled his ears back. He retreated into the shadow of his trainer, curled up his tail, and leaned against John's legs. He growled lightly, eyes darting back and forth in fearful caution. But no one could see him, not when hiding behind John.

"If I become Champion," he suddenly said without a trace of humor in his voice. It avowed victory right then and there. "You let me and my pokemon go, no questions asked."

One of the grunts scoffed. John flicked a glance at him. It earned silence. He then looked at _all_ of them and the entire House stood at attention.

"Otherwise," John continued, returning his glance to Onyx and raising his voice to a declaration. "I'll do what I should have done from the very beginning."

And that was attempt an escape in the form of a blaze of glory, uncaring of how much damage was caused to them or himself, taking out as many goons as possible before biting the inevitable bullet. Lieutenant Vaughn removed a pokeball and put a hand to the gun underneath his jacket. Onyx slowly stepped forward, coming out of his protective line. Vaughn cautiously glanced at her but she didn't return the favor. She kept her eyes on John. The two looked at one another a moment before she passed off an engraved box she was carrying to her lieutenant. It looked oddly familiar.

"Making threats and demands now, are we?" Onyx replied. "Looks like you're finally fitting in." She looked at John's legs and the canine tucked behind. She twisted out a frown but quickly shrugged it away. "Whatever you want, B.A.," she said, continuing on her way. As a sponsor, it was her duty to satisfy. The lenses of her glasses caught the light despite the darkness of the tunnel welcoming her.

"Whatever you want."


	35. Heart of a Champion: 1

**Heart of a Champion: 1**

Vermillion thought John would have stopped by now. The match was over. He had won. Rest was well warranted and deserved. Yet, here they were, in the men's black and white tiled locker room. Not the medical bay or training room, but an empty bleached pit of nervous anticipation and washed out testosterone. And it wasn't even for the B.A. himself. John sat on the floor of the shower, bathing, washing, treating, and tending to each and every single one of his pokemon, whether they had fought that night or not. He released them one by one, starting with the easiest, which just so happened to be the newest addition to the party.

Saul took one look at the shower and veered off in the opposite direction, more interested in scoping out this new place than listening to a word of instruction. John didn't seem to mind. In fact, he anticipated the reaction, setting up two warm freshly dried towels next to the lockers in line with the snake's interested route. Eventually, he'd nose through them to clean and dry himself without even realizing it.

Marco and Athena took care of themselves. With a turn of the faucet, the shower turned into a bird bath. Athena stuck close to Marco despite both of them having mostly recovered from their own match the other night. They pruned one another's feathers, splashing and hopping in and out of the spray. Marco favored one wing but refused to let Athena baby him. Once the pair was finished, John left the water running. Saul curiously flicked a tongue at it when the trainer's back was turned but quickly sneered away when Vermillion caught him investigating the dewy remains.

Charles came next. John painstakingly untwisted every single linoone hair wrapped around the quills in his fur. He massaged out each and every barbed point. One by one they piled up to the side. A single snap between the trainer's fingers ensured that they never caught flesh again. John then removed the dried matts of blood. Several needed to be cut in order not to disturb the healing clots. Snip by snip, the shearing scissors literally passed a hair's breath from the rushing pokemon's skin and they never caught a cell of fresh blood. John scoured every inch of the linoone for wounds without causing a wince of discomfort. Those healing hands even went so far as to top the pokemon's head in a tower of suds. One strong short breath blew them off in a frothy burst. Charles closed his eyes with a relaxing flex of his paw.

Vermillion had yet to see a healing machine work any better.

John was soaked more than his party pokemon by the time he towel dried the rushing pokemon to a cotton ball. At that point, Saul had witnessed both the results and comforts offered by such dedicated care. He forced himself upon the trainer by thrashing in the shower, breaking tile and the quiet drum of water until John came over to tend to him. It wasn't until the soap was lathered between the trainer's hands and massaged into the purple coated muscles that the ekans stopped and laid there as if dead, flicking his tongue to lap up the warm water. The only way to remove him was to entice him with something just as relaxing. Luckily, John had already set up the cotton temple along the lockers. Saul slid into it with only a set of nostrils sticking out between the folds.

Without bothering to wring out his tunic, John finally moved on to Lopo. They stood in the shower together. Neither spoke nor shared more physical contact than what was necessary. Blackish brown water ran down the drain underneath them as John ran his fingers over the houndoom's body. The canine remained still, even as the precise and gentle fingers cleaned the bloody holes in his muzzle. Not a twitch of pain or pleasure disturbed that smooth black coat. John walked out when he was finished and sat on the bench, leading the canine by an invisible rein. Towel drying a dark pokemon wasn't exactly easy with all of their boney armor, but John took to it as if he had done it all his life. He even went so far as to lightly buffer and polish the chipped ends.

Lopo didn't look at him. His nearly solid black eyes gave nothing away to the workings of the mind underneath. The only time he made an effort to move outside of his grooming was when Charles started twitching in a dream on the towel nearby. A few licks on the top of the head quickly stilled the linoone again. Lopo added a few more for good measure. It was the least he could do.

After all, without that weak little pokemon acting as a living shield, he might not have made it out of the Cage alive. Onyx liked skeletons as much as she did live specimens.

Vermillion sat on the opposing bench, watching the scene. She couldn't exactly leave John unattended after his little act of defiance, and in this world, that meant keeping both eyes and a pokebelt on high alert. But the more she watched, the more confused she became. John worked with the routine precision of an Ace and yet he himself had admitted his failures as a trainer. He had won his battle but hung his head as if he were utterly crushed in defeat. Worst of all, he had yet to address the reason behind it all. Vermillion looked at Lopo. She then looked at the red welt on John's hand. He had bandaged it, although rather poorly compared to the treatment of his party pokemon, addressing it as much as the houndoom's treachery. Everyone in the House saw it, how his own pokemon had burned him in a feral spout of self-preservation.

Where was the ravenous hatred, disgust, and wounded pride that came with an intimate betrayal?

The self-preserving instinct implanted in the houndoom's DNA had finally come to light but John still cared as tenderly for the canine's wounds as the others. In fact, aside from a few light requests, of which Vermillion obliged immediately, John said nothing. That alone was cause for concern. Vermillion didn't understand. Not a single reprimand was given. Not one chastising look of fear, hatred, or even pity. This time, it was the Polisher who couldn't remain quiet.

"Why aren't you mad at him?" she asked.

John took Lopo's back foot in his hand. The paw bent without resistance. Not even the fine hairs surrounding the pad twitched in uncertainty as John dried them and checked for battle born burrs.

"Why should I be mad?" he replied without breaking concentration.

Was that even a real question?

Vermillion nearly scoffed when she remembered who it was she was dealing with. Holding a grudge was in John's nature as much as using a whip. Personally, she preferred the leather but she'd take the first too, anything except this passive blindness. If one of her pokemon had branded her from wrist to palm like that, they never would have made it out of the Cage door. John was also the biggest idiot when it came to dealing out blame.

"Because," Vermillion answered, "you look like I do when I clean my guns after they've been sitting in the safe for too long." Then again, prodding into a matter of ethics might just lead to another friendship rant. Vermillion was still trying to clean out her ears from the last one. "Then again, you always look like shit," she diverted.

It was too late.

"It's not his fault," John explained. He took Lopo's head in his hand. It was by far the most seductive show of dominance she had ever seen from the B.A. and yet there was only compassion in his eyes. They looked straight through the darkness and into the stars glowing behind the canine's glistening black soul. "Unlike your guns, pokemon are living beings," he continued.

John carefully removed his hand from underneath Lopo's jaw, but without its support, Lopo lowered his head into the trainer's lap. His white lined eyes glanced up at the trainer and John gently stroked a finger along his head crest. Not to be outdone, Marco fluttered down from the top of the lockers. He landed on John's shoulder, grabbing a bicep with one foot and a shoulder with the other. His tail feathers draped over John's arm and back like a regal half cape. The pidgeotto made sure to position himself on a more intimate level than the houndoom, standing so close that his breast feathers rubbed against John's face. John closed his eyes and turned a cheek into them, lightly rubbing his cheekbone in a movement mimicking a beak to beak nuzzle. He smiled, opened his eyes, and looked at Vermillion.

"There's more to them than gunpowder and bullets," he said.

And for some reason, Vermillion believed him. She shouldn't have. He was a weak, bruised, and battered piece of trainer trash discarded into the shit hole that was humanity's darker half. And yet, in the seat of his lap, John cradled one of the finest murdering machines known in the world of pokemon. One whistle and he could have opened the skies and torn through heaven, ripped apart the earth and burned through hell. But he didn't. Because he didn't want to. That much power in one place was terrifying.

And intoxicating.

Marco narrowed a keen eye at the Polisher, squalled, and spread out his wings. He pounded out a _gust_ strong enough to blow back Vermillion's hair and force her to break her gaze. Jealously, it seemed, didn't stop at the line between people and pokemon. She snarled slightly in a clench of her teeth but it quickly disintegrated into little more than a pout as John winked a smile through the rustled feathers. Vermillion quickly turned away as if that's what she always intended to do.

"If you're finished playing around, I suggest you take a shower. You smell like wet dog," she mumbled.

Lopo lifted his head and cocked it ever so slightly. John obliged her with that annoying chuckle of his, but even though a pressure seemed to have fallen from his shoulders, the locker room remained quiet. The drum of water filled the silence. John streaked his disheveled locks into sleek shards down his head in the spray. Water ran down his skin, rushing over faded brown bruises, healing punctures, old burns, and fresh cuts. Vermillion turned away, embarrassed to trace them any further down his back without permission. She stood at the edge of the curtain with her back against the wall and her arms behind her back. She didn't sneak a peek and he didn't shy away. John stood there, holding himself up with one hand and his head down with the other, letting the warmth of the water soak into his scars.

Vermillion kept her eyes busy by watching John's party pokemon. Athena hopped closer to Marco and the two rubbed their beaks together. Even she could see that a new connection had formed between them. It seemed an impossible feat, to find love in such gloom and shadow of the underground. To dream like the linoone breathing slowly on his towel or find silence, not loneliness, like the houndoom sitting nearby. All of them were capable of finding a moment's peace because of a trainer hardly capable of caring for himself. It was beyond reason. It didn't make sense. But then again, that seemed to be the way it was regarding everything about John.

"Who taught you to raise pokemon?" Vermillion asked.

"The same person since the first time you asked me," John replied.

He sharply pushed aside the curtain. Vermillion jumped lightly in surprise. Dripping wet and wearing only a towel, she was tempted to polish her fingers right over those flexors but the curious upward tilt of John's eyes as he looked at the ceiling diverted her attention. Vermillion followed his gaze to the ceiling.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he answered. "I was just wondering what time it was."

Vermillion furrowed her brow. Her lip pulled up in an irritated show of confusion until she realized John wasn't wearing a watch. He didn't have a phone, there were no clocks on any of the walls, and he was never in the company of anyone that cared to give him the time of day. If he wasn't in the heat of the Cage spotlight, it was the humming glow of the fluorescents. When the lights went off, it was night. When they came back on, it was day. No matter the hour or the occasion, when his sponsor called, he answered. The city's underground corridors guided him from one kennel to another and it was only recently that John even had himself something resembling a room. Central heating and cooling were his seasons. And even when she shuttled him to the club, the only outside exposer the trainer experienced was the two steps between the valet and the door. Eight days he lived like this. For eight days he managed to survive Onyx's terror. The lucky only made it past eight minutes.

So what did that make him?

Vermillion suddenly realized John wasn't looking at the ceiling at all. He never was.

The Polisher briskly moved for the door. "Put some clothes on, tuck away your toys, and come with me," she said.

"Do I have a choice?" John asked.

Vermillion felt the pressure of his words against her back. She stopped in the frame, gently touched the wall, and caught her breath. It took only a moment. "Only on that first part," Vermillion winked back at him. Without a shirt, or much of anything really, John couldn't hide the sudden tension in his muscles. It felt good to know that she could still make him blush with the smallest of teases. It didn't last long however, when the cool night breeze washed over him.

Vermillion and John stood on the rooftop of the high rise built above this part of the Underground. The City of Breakbrick always looked better at night. With its multitude of barbed wire fences, back alleys, and loading docks, daylight only made it shine like a prison. But at night, when the shadows smoothed out the rough concrete and brick edges, the city came alive. With a few high rises, several warehouses, and even more garages, a puzzled network of lights mapped out a highway to hell.

Better known as Treasure Cove by its inhabitants, the City of Breakbrick was a safe haven for anything and everything immoral, illegal, or just plain insensitive. There were no rules, only martial law enforced by lowlifes and criminal masterminds of every sort. With the law in their pocket, the Royal Jewels had created a place undisturbed by justice and morality. Casinos peppered every territory. Bars lined every block, and storefronts weren't afraid to keep a backdoor for special and more private transactions. Drifters, down on their luck nobodies, and every curious eye had a chance to find happiness in Treasure Cove, or at least, that's what the billboard outside the Pleasure District said.

They were lucky. The City was quiet tonight.

Neon and chrome didn't reach this side of the rooftop. Low traffic kept road rage to a minimum. Machinery had long since cooled and quieted without a regular stream of customers to keep them hot and bothered. Night owls prowled around below, but without a full moon to guide them, they kept to the street corners with glowing cigarette butts to warm them. Even the sky seemed to appreciate a moments rest from the usual stormy turmoil fueled by the heat rising from the city walk. Clouds drifted above but they were thin. One could catch a star in between since the breeze had already pushed out the day's allowance of smog.

Vermillion wasn't sure what kind of life John was used to, but he took the view like a cliffside getaway. He stood at the edge of the roof and inhaled as deeply as his worn aching ribs would allow, going so far as to close his eyes and envision whatever it was that made him smile so smugly. Vermillion sat on the brick edge and looked out beyond the lights. Their sparkle had long since lost their luster in her eyes. It was the bleak and black darkness expanding beyond the City that intrigued her. It was the same darkness John seemed to be able to pierce in a single glance.

What was it that he saw on the other side?

The breeze picked up again. It lightly tossed Vermillion's hair, showing her neck and smooth collar bone. There was no sableye hiding behind her ear this time. Cutter was carefully tucked into place on her belt next to the others. John's belt was there to keep them company. She wasn't foolish enough to let him carry this close to the outside world, despite whatever Onyx allowed. There was no retrieving two pidgeotto when they hit the air, especially a mating pair. And yet, Vermillion still couldn't figure out why John let her wield them so freely. His decision to hand them over during his match with Mammoth bugged the Polisher even more than Onyx's ariados when she caught it snooping on her after a job.

Out of all the places to be thrown into and out of all the people to watch his pokemon, John had given his party to the Royal Jewel's best and most reliable Polisher. It was the worst decision he could have ever made. But then again, why did she give him a choice in the first place? Maybe it was out of boredom, curiosity, or even self-interest, knowing that his expiration date was coming due. Yet here they were, sitting on the rooftop, not because John asked but because she allowed him to. Vermillion wanted this pesky riddle out of her head, and the best way to do that, was too get a solid answer. The Polisher narrowed her eyes at the darkness. It didn't help her see any better.

"Why did you trust me with your pokemon?" she asked.

John turned away from the city and looked at her in surprise, but quickly turned his eyes up at the stars. "I'm not sure," he answered. "I just know that when I was in a pinch, your voice sounded familiar. It gave me a direction to go in."

Vermillion whipped over a scowl. What was she, a fucking compass? But John had his back to her. He never saw the insult or had the chance to recognize it from behind those broad, heavy, sloping shoulders, but Vermillion wasn't sure she cared that he did. He said that she sounded familiar. Did that mean he remembered their first meeting in Boulder? No. He couldn't have. Because if he did, he would have realized that she would have scraped him off of the bottom of her steel tipped heel before she helped him. Her decision to intervene in the Cage was out of curiosity, not concern. Then again, now that Vermillion thought about it, she hadn't looked for another contract in over a week. . .

The Polisher looked back into the darkness. "Trusting people like me isn't smart," she said.

"I don't trust people," John easily retorted. "I trust you."

Vermillion refused to look at him or that smile that was no doubt tickling a part of her that had drowned in blood long ago. Some of it given willingly from her own veins.

"This is a cruel world," she continued. "Your nightmare has barely begun."

"I guess it's a good thing I have a friend like you to watch over me."

Vermillion hardened a scowl and looked back at John, but once again, he had his eyes turned up at the sky. She couldn't bear to call them down again. After all, this may very well be the last time John ever gazed at them. Vermillion looked up, trying to catch that same celestial twinkle. There was none. Not even a plane screaming through the sky. There was no light in the darkness. There never was. Vermillion slowly turned her eyes back down to the ground, to reality, and to John. He stood there, silently gazing at the sky as if reading constellations. Oblivious. Fool hardy and hopeful in a world brimming with despair. Vermillion's emerald green eyes glowed in a light she wished had sputtered out eight days ago.

"Well," John suddenly said as he turned around to face the Polisher once more. "We should probably head back. It's late. Plus, we're not supposed to be up here anyway. If Onyx finds out, she'll have both of our heads."

Vermillion lifted her gaze, looked into those carnival cotton candy eyes, and nodded. She couldn't find it in herself to speak. There was no witty comeback or snarky remark strong enough to part her glossy rose colored lips. She was still lost in that darkness despite John having found a place within it. Why couldn't he have been like the others? Thrash in fear at the hands of the grunts, cry himself into a corner of the Cage, and give in to the cataclysmic turn of his fate.

Had fear forgotten him like the rest of humanity or was he just too ignorant to see what was inevitably waiting beyond the darkness? If he would just break down, give in, and turn into a feral monster clawing at survival, it would be easier for all of them. If he committed to the contract signed for him and let loose like all of the other Blood Aces, maybe then she wouldn't such a thorn in her side. Vermillion had braced herself for every kind of pain imaginable. As a Polisher, she had calloused her skin with two decades of violence, atrocity, and villainy.

And yet, John smiled at her and it pierced, drawing blood.

Together, they left the rooftop in silence. It wasn't until they walked back down the corridor into Onyx's underground that Vermillion finally recovered and spoke.

"Don't think that this next match will be like the others," the Polisher warned. She struggled to keep up with John's casual leading gait. "They'll be out for blood. YOUR blood. This tournament means just as much as any League match to them."

"I understand," John said. "Aces have their pride no matter what title they aim for."

"They'll show no mercy. If you're not just as ruthless, they'll chew you to bits."

"I've never had much of an appetite but I suppose I can fast a little. Speaking of which, did you eat today? You look a little pale."

"That's not the point!" Vermillion quickly regained herself and weighted her walk down to her hips. She carelessly tossed a curl of hair behind her shoulder. "One wrong move and all my efforts will have gone to waste."

"I'd hate to be a waste of your time," John answered.

Vermillion quickly dropped the act and thrust herself at John's side, trying to catch his attention and slow him down from a head on collision with disaster. His smooth pace didn't waver.

"I'm not kidding. One mistake and they'll fucking kill you," she exclaimed.

"I thought you said you were going to be the one to kill me."

"And I will!"

"Then I'll make sure you get that chance."

John smiled and the dark stone hallway remembered its ancient medieval roots in chivalry. He stopped and looked off into the glow of Onyx's gallery beside them. Vermillion didn't bother with the temptation. She had acquired most of the collection anyway. What she wanted was for John to look at her and acknowledge the warnings she was so diligently trying to hammer into his thick skull. But something swirled in John's eyes. It made her feel small and insignificant, like he knew something that she didn't. And that's what infuriated her because it was quite the opposite. John turned away from the gallery. He looked down at Vermillion and offered his hand. She stiffened and looked down at the open palm. It was the same one John's carelessness had forced her to re-bandage in the locker room.

Something brightly colored and sparkly flickered to life in that offer, but this was the Underground, and that hand had been soaked in blood only a few hours earlier.

Vermillion quickly cleared the fantasy and unhooked the pokebelt from her waist. She did so slowly, invitingly, and yet John's eyes never left hers, not even once. She passed off the belt without the arousal of a blush. He took it and lowered his hand. His room wasn't for several feet but this was as far as he was going to let her escort him. The rest, he would go himself.

"Thank you for taking me out tonight," he said. "But this is where I say goodnight."

The Polisher turned her head away as if to look into the gallery and crossed her arms over her chest. She tapped a foot against the stone.

"It's about God damn time," she muttered. "I was starting to worry I'd have to babysit you all night."

There was no retort. No comeback or witty remark. John merely politely nodded his head, turned, and walked down the corridor. Vermillion dropped her arms and silenced her foot. John turned into the shadows. Vermillion looked into them, hardening herself with a deep inhale.

That was it. That's the image she needed to remember. Darkness. Not the rooftop view, or the stars, or John, but that black pit she committed herself to years ago. It would consume John just like all the others. She had seen it a thousand times before: trainers who thought they could make it through the Jeweled bracket only to fail so hard in the Cage that a single body bag wouldn't cut it. The underdog never wins in _this_ circuit.

Never.

Vermillion loosened her grip and looked back into the gallery. The cool nature of her skin iced over in the dampness of the underground. Her lips grew darker, lining themselves in a poisonous black purple along the edges of her frown. She had said it from the very beginning. A fool like John could never survive in a place like this. So what made him think that he could? What made him smile so confidently? What was it that he saw in this showcase that gave him such hope? Vermillion would find out. She walked into the gallery. Her black nails grazed the corners of passing pedestals until she stopped in front of one in particular. The light within cast a nearly invisible line across the edges of the glass case.

Really? Out of all the things that could spark hope in John's eyes, it was _this_? A dingy tattered silver colored feather? It barely had any shine left in it and the top had bent like a bookmark used too many times. Vermillion scoffed and nearly scratched her nails across the case.

This feather was nothing like the rainbow colored one in the case next to it. Now _that_ was a relic. Not an ugly stupid useless feather or a pathetic weak excuse of a trainer like John. Neither were worth saving.

Vermillion turned away from the pedestals, glaring at the others in the room. Onyx and her fucking obsession with stories of old power. It didn't matter if it was an ugly old feather or the Crown Jewels, if she wanted it, she got it. That ambition fueled the very heart of the Black Market which in turn, fueled this God forsaken city. And what Onyx wanted now, was a pokemon born of fire and darkness capable of scaring death itself. Vermillion stormed out of the gallery. No matter what John did or how hard he tried, he would lose this fight. He would never become Cage Champion. Vermillion cut her lips in a scoff.

Onyx would make sure of it.


	36. Heart of a Champion: 2

**Heart of a Champion: 2**

John flashed open his eyes. Lying on the bed in a restful state, there were a million things that could have startled him awake. Bad dreams being one of them. His present circumstances, not including past traumas or unresolved issues, could have concocted a tonic of nightmares worthy of insanity. But he had tried that once, and didn't care for it. No, what thrust him brusquely into consciousness wasn't terrifying, disturbing, or horrific imaginations but something plainly physical. He was warm. And without a blanket, that could only mean one thing.

John wasn't sleeping alone.

Something warm pressed against his back. A distinct weight sagged the old mattress stuffing. Then, there was movement. Slow shallow breathing indicated that this guest was still oblivious to John's consciousness. All of which was curious considering John went to bed alone. Or at least, that's what he remembered. Moving risked waking the still sleeping subject but John couldn't exactly let this mystery go unsolved forever. He slowly looked over his shoulder. Considering the size of his frame, it didn't help much. He couldn't see anything. John twisted even further and lifted an elbow. Still, nothing. It was time to commit to the cause. John rolled over, making sure to stay in contact with the warm visitor least the cool departure of body heat cause his company an uncomfortable chill and even more uncomfortable arousal.

John blinked to make sure he wasn't dreaming. There on the bed coiled next to him, was an ekans. There had to be some kind of logical explanation. Saul would never sleep next to a human without unwilling desperation. John looked over to the nest in the corner of the room. The blanket was still there. No uncomfortable lumps as far as he could see but the lamp was off. Had it blown out in the middle of the night? If so, it was possible Saul was just satisfying an instinctual need to stay warm. Although, John wouldn't put it past the snake to freeze to death just to spite someone. Onyx had testified to a similar fact regarding his evolution.

John looked down at Saul again. His scales had thickened since they first met. They weren't as shinny and glossy as before but the color had truly started to show. Most people didn't realize that a snake's best flashing iridescence came from scratching its scales across dirt and rocks. The minute grooves had a tendency to catch and hold minerals while exposing those held within, causing the scales to flash in a rainbow of colors when the light stroked them just right. Hand buffering could do the same but the color was never as sharp and brilliant as natural polish.

Just a few days of sliding around on the floor and there was already a noticeable difference. Had Onyx ever let Saul out of his pokeball? John slowly reached out and laid a hand on the purple coil closest to him. He stroked the scales with just enough weight to flatten his hand. The skin pulled in a tickle. John smiled. It was cold in the underground, especially for snakes. Snuggling was a necessary act of survival.

Of course.

It would have been nice to enjoy the moment a little longer, but John knew better than to catch Saul red handed offering emotional intimacy. The trainer might just catch another _fang_ instead. It took an extensive bit of maneuvering to make it around the snake without disturbing him since the bed was up against the wall, but at John's longitude, it didn't take long. He got out of bed and made sure to stuff the pillow next to Saul in his absence. Wouldn't want him to sag in the depression and roll out of a pleasant dream, if such things existed in a place like this.

John stood beside the bed. Like every morning, there was no sense changing clothes because the set of warm ups he currently wore were the only ones he had. Breakfast would wait until noon and retaining his water was now an art. Solitary confinement gave little room for entertainment, so John started his day like he always did.

With meditation.

It was probably the only thing that kept him sane in this world. That, and his pokemon. John sat down on the floor, got into position, and closed his eyes. He focused on his party in his mind, reaching out for Lularoo, the rapidash, to see if his spirit could truly breach space and time. He imagined flame and watched it dance and wave in wind. But his thoughts drifted to something more colorful, wild, and expansive. Something distant yet very close . . .

Sometime later, probably when the last of John's body heat dissipated from the bed, Saul shifted on the mattress. He uncoiled with a rustle of the sheet and lowered his head onto the floor with a flick of his tongue. He paused a moment, starring into John's back to make sure he wouldn't get caught treading the line of affection, and continued as if he just now remembered the trainer was there. John spared him the embarrassment of watching. He did wink open an eye, however, when the end of the snake's tail thumped on the floor at the end of the procession. Back to sleep for the pokemon, and back to navigating the web of reflection for the trainer.

Meditation had a way of screwing with time. John had come to appreciate the irony of that fact, but even he recognized that his pickup time for training was later than usual. Very late now that he focused in on it. The darkness shifted with his concentration, shaping itself into his surroundings. Something was coming. Heavy and purposeful footsteps reverberated down the corridor. John felt them, then heard them, before they even hit the door. He opened his eyes seconds before the handle turned. To his surprise, it wasn't Vermillion but Onyx's first lieutenant, Vaughn, who opened the door. And just like the soldier's boss, John could never read more from his expression than a harsh apathetic expectation of inferiority for whoever fell prostrate at the end of his gaze.

"Pack it up," he ordered with a glance at Saul.

John was tempted to ask where the usual messenger was but he was sure Vermillion would have somehow found out about the teasing comment and reprimanded him with a _scratch_ across the face. The fact that the lieutenant wielded an electrified baton, pokebelt, and a fully loaded pistol, also convinced him to keep a tight lip. There was a chance the lieutenant was as good a shot as his boss but John doubted it. Instead of issuing a warning over the shoulder, Lieutenant Vaughn might just miss and shoot a hole straight through his head.

"Come with me," he ordered again.

Brisk and to the point, as usual.

John looked at Saul. The snake flicked his tongue, unwilling to pull his eyes off of the lieutenant for even a moment. Vaughn looked at him again. A heavy rattle droned to life. John ended it with a withdrawal. He snapped Saul in place and followed the lieutenant out of the room. They made their way through the two coded access doors and back into the complex. John led the way with Vaughn in the rear. The lieutenant's presence felt lighter than before, probably because John had memorized the way to all of his usual stops, but as the trainer turned for the training room, Vaughn quickly barked out a reprimand.

"Not today," he said. "Your next match is tonight."

"Back to back battles?" John asked with a glance over his shoulder. No training day in between?

The lieutenant put a hand to his collapsible baton. "Keep moving."

John obediently turned away and continued down the corridor. Another growl indicated they were headed for the research lab. No training and apparently no breakfast or shower either. The usual lightness of John's expression hardened slightly. The powers that be had pushed the match a day ahead of schedule. Was it because he was starting to show promise or were they pressed for time? Or more likely, his little declaration yesterday had scared them back into caution. And for good reason. John meant every word of it.

"Hot damn, you're still alive?" the clinic doctor asked as the pair walked into the lab.

"For the time being," John replied.

Vaughn quickly cut in front of him. "Full work up. No boosters," he ordered.

The doctor nodded and flicked the switch to bring the healing machine to life. He then walked into a back room and came out carrying a tray of vials. He set it down in front of John.

"Let's get started, shall we?" he said while grabbing two vials and a syringe.

Lieutenant Vaughn grabbed the doctor's hand. "Did you not hear a word I just said?" he coldly hissed. It was the first time John had ever heard more in the Lieutenant's voice than fixed disdain. The doctor's eyes widened. They stayed that way when he looked at John, packed up the tray, and left the room without another word. Vaughn flicked his eyes back at John. They didn't linger as the lieutenant moved for the door.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Wardrobe will have you when treatment is finished."

No booster shots and straight to wardrobe? Onyx sure had him on the fast track to somewhere. John was starting to get the impression that Vermillion hadn't been left behind, but took off in the other direction. It was a sour thought, one John didn't have the right taste buds for, but it wasn't a surprise. As the Polisher always preached, some things were inevitable. It was a miracle she stuck with him as long as she did. John was grateful for every minute of it. Lieutenant Vaughn walked out of the door and motioned behind him. Two grunts came into the room. They had to be more of Onyx's crew because they carried rifles across their chests. They were the only syndicate that still clung to the classic ideals. None of the other Jewel's respected such out dated methods of persuasion. Bullets and brass casings would be John's first meal of the day should he decide to pull another stunt like last night.

At least, the Black Jewel had finally taken him seriously.

The doctor returned, keeping his silence even while motioning for John's pokebelt. John removed it and handed it over. With the black knight gone and only two pawns remaining, the doctor loosened his tongue a little, mostly out of necessity for his work than conversation.

"Any casualties?" he asked with a glance down the lineup. John would have been offended if it wasn't the first question asked at the start of every clinical visit. Remembering last night's battle kept his answer to a brisk "No." The doctor, now demoted to researcher, nodded and moved over to the healing machine. He removed the pokeballs, inserted preliminary restoration discs, and set them into the machine. One lonely classic ball remained on the belt while the others colored the metal of the rack. No sense healing an unoccupied ball.

The doctor then glanced at the door and the guards on either side of it. Clad in full raiding gear, the grunts expected nothing less than a mutiny. They watched John with hungry eyes.

"For Christ's sake, he's not going to do anything without his pokemon," the doctor yelled with a motion to the Blood Ace sitting quietly on the stool. The guards didn't move but they didn't relax either. John was sure they would have shot the doctor too if they felt it necessary. But aggravating his escorts now with wisecracks would only lead to a breaking point. A line had been crossed last night, if only with a single statement, and there was no taking it back. John didn't plan to anyway. In fact, he probably should have said it sooner, but there was no point dwelling on the past. The future was all that mattered.

And right now, getting his pokemon ready for battle was more important than freedom.

A full workup in the healing machine generally took about an hour. The doctor normally had it running while performing John's usual health diagnostic, but without the extra work, there was nothing to do but wait. John hovered over monitors and equipment, watching blips and beeps in correspondence to various tests and programs. The doctor didn't seem to mind. Which, apparently, wasn't the usual routine because the guards couldn't stop wagging their fingers across the rifle's safety with every shift in position. John would have enjoyed the nervous fidgeting if he wasn't so focused on the progress of his pokemon.

Charles took the longest to treat. Considering the beating he took yesterday, some wouldn't have bothered with the machine at all and replaced him with a fresher healthier pokemon. But then again, no one knew the linoone as well as John. Long, lean, and hardy, the rushing pokemon may not have ever won a real battle, but he had never given up on one either. John preferred more traditional means of healing but given his current standings, he appreciated the swiftness of _restores_ and healing machines.

But even that wasn't fast enough for the grunts. They badgered the doctor to hurry up after fifteen minutes of waiting and started ushering John out of the door before the pokeballs were even in his hands. Waiting for someone else's pokemon to heal wasn't nearly as amusing as playing security in the Houses on a match night. But despite the doctor's obligation to satisfy the sponsor's wishes, this was _his_ clinic, dark and grungy as it may be, and he wasn't about to let a patient go without his final approval.

The doctor stopped John as the party restoration finished. Both grunts stepped forward, but one gnarled glare from the doctor with a syringe in hand waylaid the advance. John obediently held out an arm. The needle wasn't as steady as usual, and a little blood pooled at the injection site, but the drugs went in smoothly. The ease to which the B.A. suddenly held himself indicated that the doctor had been generous. John had a feeling that the researcher wanted to say something. During previous visits they may not have chatted easily, but they had exchanged more than the usual grunt and scoff of other patients. Today, there was silence. They looked at one another but the doctor's gaze was fleeting. He turned away, paused as if he forgot something, and continued towards the machinery.

"Let's go. We're running late," the guards pressed.

They stepped forward, coming up beside John, but not even their intimidating surge was enough to pressure the trainer an inch. John carefully snapped his pokebelt around his waist, and only when it was secure, did he turn and follow them out of the clinic. He never heard what it was that ailed the doctor, but then again, nothing had been the same since yesterday. Maybe it was something in the air, or some unforeseen force, pressuring the world and all the living things in it in different ways. Fate had a funny way of working like that.

Like throwing someone off a cliff through space and time.

After tiring out their trigger fingers in the clinic, the grunts felt the need to establish their dominance during the transition. They kept John in a pincer as they walked. One in the front. One in the back. John could look over their heads either way. He felt taller for some reason, or maybe he had finally acknowledged his height and weight knowing that one day, sometime soon, he might need to use it.

The dresser was waiting for them, looking somewhat panicked and antsy as if she wished they had arrived hours ago. John didn't see a real reason why. From what he gathered, there wasn't much to this match's outfit. If it could even be called an outfit: One shortened black shendyt, true to ancient culture, covered his waist and ended at the knee. It was folded in such a way that a gold and silver embellishment draped down the front. There was hardly need for alarm considering he could slip it on in two seconds.

It was when the dresser stood in front of him, hands full of a bandage like tape and an expression of dire confusion, that John understood her dilemma. She was supposed to bandage him head to foot. Palms, forearms, biceps, chest, calves, and ankles were all supposed to bear the sandy stereotype of his name, and she had no idea how to do it without making him look like a bad Christmas present. After the first wrapping and subsequent loss of circulation to his foot, John insisted he take over. It was his pride to demonstrate his wrapping technique. Not to mention it felt good to have the security of his heritage around him once more. There were no special oils, perfumes, or magical touches of the Cork City gym, but the sensation was still the same.

If felt good to have a piece of home again.

In a cage, across time, or as a slave to another's will, this bandaging technique had survived, and so would John. He would carry that determination all the way to the gates of hell. And so he did . . .

"Give it up."

John stood before Lieutenant Vaughn at the backstage entrance of the Cage. Having rendezvoused once more, the two looked at one another in mutual hatred. Vaughn held out his hand, waiting for John's pokebelt to fill it. It was a motion that rewound time just as easily as Celebi's feathered trick. Just like John's debut in the Cage before colliding with the B.A. Mammoth, there was a choice. To follow or rebel against the demands of his captors. The open palm extended to him waited for his pokebelt . . . his life. This time, would he so willingly hand it over? There were no velvety hips or black poison coated nails to ask for it today. John looked around the stage, and still, found no puckered lips, black leather, or luscious red curls to even find interest in the match. He frowned.

It looked like Vermillion wasn't coming after all.

John looked back at the lieutenant. He had made it painstakingly clear during his kidnapping that he would never leave his pokemon in the hands of a stranger, especially after nearly losing them, ever again. Lieutenant Vaughn removed the pistol from his shoulder holster and held it at his side. John unclenched his fists. Being dead didn't help his pokemon. Now wasn't the time, nor the place for rebellion. It was time to honor his pledge and become Cage Champion. The Ace unclipped his pokebelt and passed it over.

Lieutenant Vaughn holstered the pistol and popped off Lopo's ball. He enlarged it, pressed the release, and minimized it again, hooking it back into place before the materialization finished. John curled his fingers into another white knuckle. Demanding his pokemon was one thing, releasing them, another. Fuming rage pulled the B.A.'s shoulders back. Feeling the energy in his own, Lopo appeared, head low and tail still. His black eyes flashed at the Lieutenant. The two heavily armored guards quickly stepped up behind them, rifles shifting in their hands.

John turned half a cheek at one of them. This triangle was far more treacherous than anything the sea could muster but it wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before. John relaxed lightly, spurring Lopo's horns up from the ground. A broadcast shouted over the intercom, introducing Pharaoh onto the stage. Lieutenant Vaughn glanced down the tunnel to the yellowish glow of the Cage then back at John.

"Get moving," he commanded.

The pair didn't need a prompt. They were already mid stride by the time Lieutenant Vaughn punctuated the order. Crewmen working House operations paused as John and Lopo passed by. They hoped to catch a glimpse of the man rumor had claimed was truly blessed by the divine. There was no other explanation to his success and survival in the Cage. The crowd was already in an uproar when the pair appeared on the walkway. Spotlights turned on them. John and Lopo came to a rehearsed stop. No tottering steps, undead moans, or muffled cries teased the crowd with call sign dramatics. There was only Pharaoh, bandaged from the scars of war, and his god of the underworld, Anubis, waiting to escort their next opponent into the afterlife. Or at least, that's what the announcer proclaimed through the loud speakers. Whistles and shouts split through the rumbling cheers. They heightened the fever of the crowd, causing them to wave and undulate in an incoherent mass of ecstasy.

The Cage was waiting.

John looked down at Lopo. The houndoom seemed unfazed by it all. He kept his head steady. His tail flicked slightly here and there, eyes distant from the metal dome and its vultures but ever aware of their presence. Hearty meals five times a day combined with regular training had smoothed out his sides. The rough edges to his armor had polished themselves to a shine. His horns seemed weightless, his body unburdened. Cool, calm, and as quick as a shadow in the night, _this_ was the houndoom John remembered.

This was his friend. His battling partner.

John ran his hand down Lopo's neck. The fur ran smoother than silk under his fingers. Lopo turned his head up at the trainer in a sniff of recognition but quickly dropped it again with an adjustment of his paw. There was no need to linger. The canine was exactly where he was supposed to be. Heat slowly radiated from his coat. It was deep and heavy like the warm skin of a volcano. John didn't need jumpy staff, a shift in routine, or a psychic premonition to know that this battle would be different. Onyx had something up her sleeve.

But he would face it.

Lopo sneezed out a wash of cinders like the scrape of a sharpened hoof.

 _They_ would face it. Together.

Horns first.

Literally.

Lopo brushed open the Cage door with a high tilt of his horns. John walked in after him, ducking slightly as if he had grown another two feet and couldn't fit through the door. They were the first in, and apparently, first in popularity because as their opponent walked in from the opposite side of the Cage, a low booing moan rattled the metal woven dome. Like John, the B.A. entered with his chosen pokemon already released. A banette floated to the forefront with a twist of its head, pulling its zippered mouth into a grin. It was the only joyous expression in the Cage.

John and Lopo had their reasons, but even the marionette pokemon's trainer didn't seem enthralled to be in the race for Cage Champion. Was he forced into gladiator like survival as well? John doubted it considering this B.A. was unlike anything he had ever faced before. There was no flare whatsoever. Not even an outfit. No gimmicks or quirks to give himself a name.

John glanced up through the Cage to the score board and it was no wonder he had such a hard time trying to find one. The B.A.'s call sign was "66". And judging from the hopeless headshakes and mutters of disappointment that started running through the crowd at his appearance, the match was no longer as enthralling as anticipated. It had been thrown, the victor decided. John had experienced this sensation several times before. Now, he recognized it, but to what end? Was this match supposed to be a staged blow out to raise his name or another crude underestimation of his skill? The latter seemed unlikely. Kronos had poured everything he had into the match and lost. But then again, why would Onyx bolster the reputation of a man she wanted dead?

John watched as several people flocked to the bookies. The tile cards spun with rapid fire bets. They eventually clacked to a stop: One to Ten. Those were the odds that John would win. Several spectators left the House in a huff. Others stepped back into the sidelines as if curious to watch the match despite knowing the outcome. One or two zealots even cursed and threw bottles at the nameless B.A. They shattered against the dome in a spray of glass. One or two security personnel quickly apprehended the rioters. 66 merely looked at them and adjusted the pokeball in his hand. He needn't be bothered with the vermin. It wasn't his job to entertain.

John suddenly understood what had just transpired in the Cage House. The crowd wasn't happy because they were no longer in for a show, and if there wasn't a show, there wasn't a _real_ battle about to take place in the Cage. 66 wasn't here to fight. He was here to kill.

John closed his eyes in a slow and steady inhale exhale combination.

66 wasn't a competitor for Cage Champion. He was a Polisher: contract killer, kin to Vermillion, only the ugly third cousin. Together, with his six pokemon, he wrote the devil's code. Murder. So this was it then? Onyx was determined to set Pharaoh in his tomb once and for all. John opened his eyes and looked at his bandaged hand. The wrappings were the first step to his looming demise and subsequent mummification. It seemed the Royal Jewel did indeed posse a sense of humor. Little did she know that these bandages served as so much more. Still, John's hand shook lightly.

Sensei always said nerves could be one of the sharpest weapon a fighter could possess. They sheared off over confidence and kept the ego nice and lean, perfect for slicing away at your opponent's weaknesses. John closed his hand into a fist to steady it. Tonight's match: the fighter versus the killer. It was a homage to Hell Raiser's legacy if John every saw one. But unlike his baptism into this bloody circuit, it was Pharaoh's turn to push back.

The traces of a smile tugged at John's lips.

Vermillion had tried to warn him of what was coming. He listened but didn't truly understand. Not completely. Facing death and fighting against it was a primal thing. But then again, he could still make a run for it. The Cage door was still open. They could turn and bolt out of those doors but that wasn't in John's nature, even if he could somehow scale the odds clacking against him. He always thought of himself as more of a jumper. John chuckled silently. Jumping was exactly what got him into this mess in the first place. But it wasn't the irony that made him smile. It was the fact that Vermillion had tried to warn him at all.

It seemed the Polisher wasn't as cold and uncaring as she thought she was.


	37. Heart of a Champion: 3

**Heart of a Champion: 3**

"Let the match begin!"

The starting buzzer blared to the unenthusiastic moans of the crowd. For once, in the entire history of the Cage House, the crowd wasn't interested in a blood bath. But they all knew, whether out of instinct or ritual attendance, that Pharaoh's unending reign of victories had come to an end. His kingdom would fall like the tyrannies of countless other Blood Aces before him: by the assassination of the monarch. Skirting so close to the lines of heaven and hell often invoked the intervention of the divine, and today, they manifested themselves in a six fold curse.

Banette tickled herself into a giggle. The louder it became, the more her body faded out of focus. She disappeared altogether by the time her laughter echoed across the arena. Lopo swished his tail. He never understood ghosts and their haunted sense of humor. If one wanted to disappear, they should disappear completely, not leave traces of themselves behind. Although, Banette was doing a pretty good job of it. Her _shadow sneak_ made her practically invisible. Lopo scanned the length of the Cage trying to follow the energy trail. In fresh sunlight, he might have seen a ripple, a mirage of form indicating the presence of an energized being, but in the heavy multidirectional spotlights of the Cage, it was impossible.

Lopo turned his nose to the air in the hopes that another sense would catch the marionette pokemon's presence, but the scent of the arena and its unwashed audience was too overbearing. It was useless. Ghosts hardly carried a smell even when using a _detect_. If he had the nose of his younger arcanine brother, Rolo, it might have been possible, but a ghost was still a ghost. They were the true harbingers of invisibility when melting into shadow. Lopo cantered into the center of the platform. If, or more accurately, when, Banette planned to attack, he'd need a wide berth of flexibility to compensate for her surprise advantage. It would also provide John room for evasive action when the flames started flying.

Off to the side, something flickered in a gap of light and shadow. Lopo blasted it with a spurt of _flame_. It burned out in a huff of smoke. He tried again from the other side. Empty air, empty flames. Banette giggled again. She suddenly reappeared from the opposite direction, where the flames had gone empty, and rammed into the houndoom's side in the hopes of knocking him off of his feet. A canine off of its paws was far more vulnerable than on its feet. Kronos employed the same tactic and the cost of succumbing to it was high. Too high for Lopo to fall prey to it a second time. He danced gracefully across the floor, throwing up a cape of flame with as much flare as the spin of a dancer's dress.

Banette slipped into a second _shadow sneak_ behind the turn of the canine's head and disappeared into the cold and eerie dimension of the undead. John switched tactics. If precision attacks wouldn't work, long range attacks might. Lopo sharply sucked in a lungful of air and roared out a _flamethrower_ more powerful than anything his voice could produce. It stretched across the arena in a wave of heat and light. But with the ability to float and fly, even without a cloak of invisibility, Banette easily dodged the attack and its predictable trajectory. Type advantages meant little when attacks didn't hit. She giggled again. The echoes of her amusement rippled within the Cage.

Lopo's ears perked on a swivel. Echoes moved like shadows and a houndoom could pinpoint those better than a night hunt on the mountain. He quickly whirled around. The enemy was on the move, but it wasn't towards him.

Banette materialized behind John.

She always preferred a good scare before an attack. It was in her nature as a ghost. So she placed both sleeved hands over one of the trainer's shoulder and turned a zippered grin up at him. The muscles underneath her hands stiffened but didn't flinch. John refused her taunt by keeping his gaze straight ahead. She moved onto the other shoulder, baiting a glance, but the only wrath she incurred was the houndoom's. Lopo _fainted_ behind John and jumped. Licked over with _flames_ , his jaws were capable of catching even a phantom. But wide as they may be, there was still one way to escape.

Banette faded through John's body. He gasped in a cold shudder, catching a glimpse of a weakened yellowed smile as it slipped out of his chest and disappeared. But the shock wasn't enough to stun him. Getting pushed into icy mountain lakes butt naked after backing out of a double dog dare stung worse. Lopo landed from his jump and darted around John's legs back into a close forward position. A _flamethrower_ or _faint attack_ might have caused critical damage to the ghost but the fire canine wouldn't risk hurting John in the process. Not anymore. His great curled horns lowered. Cinders pooled between his teeth, but Banette knew the secret to those flames. She materialized in the only place he wouldn't fire.

John heard the giggle in his ear before the puppet reappeared. She pulled on his arm as if to drag him away from the canine and into that other dimension. He jerked it free. Lopo whirled around in a snapping growl but the ghost darted in closer, tugging on John's hair. One swat encouraged the ghost farther down where she pushed the trainer in the back. John stumbled forward, opening enough space for Lopo to cut in between, but the canine wasn't fast enough at regular speed to land a hit. For several minutes, the gangly dance continued to the beat of clapping teeth. Spectators laughed and jeered at the spectacle that frustrated John as much as his houndoom. Riding the joke to its punchline, Banette came up behind John, grabbed his wrists, and waved his arms in mimicry of her species. John ripped them away so fiercely that he bent forward, exposing the puppeteer and his back.

Lopo leapt over it.

With the heat of the canine's teeth warming her face, Banette dropped her smile as fast as her antics. She bent backwards in a dodge, but this time, she wasn't quick enough. Lopo tore through a quarter of her body. Ghostly smoke violently dispersed upon impact. Banette quickly raised a hand to her missing arm and shoulder. Everything reformed, thinner and lighter in mass and color, except her grin. With a true blow delivered, play time was over. John straightened from his hunch and into a chill. He reflexively lifted his arms against the side of his head moments before a _faint attack_ slammed into them. It wasn't enough to dislodge his stance but it did set off Lopo's boiling temper.

John felt the warmth of a purposefully triggered _flash fire_. He froze at the warning and a _flamethrower_ billowed past him. It crisped the frayed hairs of his bandages but no more. Banette squealed and pulled herself out of the screaming blow torch. She hurriedly transitioned into another _shadow sneak_. Lopo didn't pursue her escape even though the illusion took longer to produce with a smoking body. He didn't want to leave John's side and risk exposing the trainer to more taunts. Their partnership had avoided unnecessary friendly fire but their luck wouldn't last forever.

John lowered his arms and backed into step alongside the canine. If the match continued like this, Lopo wouldn't land a successful hit on the enemy without sacrifice. Filling the Cage with flames was their best shot at victory. An inferno of that scale would find the puppet no matter where she hid, invisibility or not, but Lopo had already proven that protection was his main concern. There was no way he would go all out if it risked his trainer's safety, and the enemy was using that to their advantage. The only way to win was to change the battlefield, and to do that, John would have to make the target on his back so small that not even a ghost could catch it.

John whistled sharply and took off in a run around the outer edge of the dome. He held out a hand and Lopo's horns came underneath it. John pulled himself close to the hound, one hand clutched onto the ridged curl and the other arm braced around the boney spine ribbing. He crouched, holding himself up and sliding his feet forward against the canine's side. The weightless sandals created a frictionless surface between him and the ground.

Lopo took up the weight in true sled dog fashion, pulling John along like a car hosting a skateboarder. It was a trick they had learned while sliding down steep rock faces after John grew too big to ride the fire canine anymore. This close to the houndoom, not even Banette risked approach. The two swung around to the opposite side of the dome, straight for the enemy. John sprang up from his crouch in the curve, released the houndoom, and skid to a standstill behind the Polisher, startling 66 with raw unmitigated gall. Both B.A.s now occupied the same spot on the far side of the dome, opening up nearly 360 degrees of open terrain.

"Now!" John shouted.

Lopo turned his back to the humans and blasted a _flamethrower_ in a spinning like motion. The stream blossomed as wide as it could go, spiraling from the outside in, so that the flames formed a funnel that flattened into an unavoidable wall of flames. Unless Banette could truly disappear, she couldn't avoid it. The wave of fire slammed into her and pushed her back into visibility. She tumbled backwards in the air, throwing her burned sock hands across her body to smother the searing burns. 66 puppeted her motions, throwing a fist across his chest towards the B.A. brazen enough to steal his unspoken territory.

John back peddled into the metal wall behind him. He ducked away from a straight left that drove 66's arm through one of the rectangular gaps in the Cage. The Polisher ran into it, catching his jacket on the metal. John spun away in just enough time to dodge a second hand clawing after him. 66 cursed and tore out of his jacket to free himself. He only managed three steps in pursuit of his prey before Lopo body checked him in the side. The Polisher went sprawling across the platform. It wouldn't take long for him to recover. Lopo had to act fast if he wanted to ensure John's safety, but the fire canine also had to think of his own wellbeing when a ball of blue fire slowly floated past his head. It was small, no bigger than a tennis ball at its spherical base, with a tall flame softly licking upwards around it.

A second ball of energy floated by on the other side. Lopo sidestepped to avoid it and felt the heat of a third graze his hip. Judging from the warming tingle, it was not induced by natural fire based flame. It was a _will-O-wisp_. One that quickly filled the Cage with blue candlelight fire. Lopo whirled around, careful not to touch any of the floating fireballs hovering around him. He saw John with his back to him, frozen in the middle of the Cage with a minefield of lantern lights just waiting to explode around him. Banette smiled from sleeve to sleeve and tilted her head from side to side. Her trainer's intervention was the perfect distraction to set up the trap. John shifted slightly as a fireball floated close to his ribs. One touch and the ball would explode with enough power to remove a hunk of very valuable flesh. John turned his head to the side and looked at Lopo. His eyes glinted brighter than the _wisps_.

"Do it," he said.

Lopo was only too happy to oblige. He turned to the nearest glowing ball and snapped his jaws around it. Blue flame sparked between his teeth. A deep inhale expanded it. John did the same, holding his breath at its peak. Lopo spat out the _wisp_ in a blue _flamethrower_ twice as powerful as the explosive used to create it. The flames splashed across the closest _wisps_ , igniting them is several popping bursts. A chain reaction spurred an explosive ripple across the Cage. John pivoted on his toes and graced the floor in a sequence of slow motion footwork that made his gym heritage proud. He positioned himself to face the overheated tsunami.

Two fireballs spread apart next to him, creating a gap large enough to leap through. He dove into the oncoming wall of explosions better than a sealeo in a cresting wave. Years of firework mishaps at the Boulder Pokemon Festival provided the accuracy needed to avoid the shrieking sparking backlash while the tight bandages wrapped around his skin fended off any burns. Banette had neither. The wave of sequential detonations carried her along in the concussion. John rolled out of the blast radius as it passed, gracefully shifting to kneel on one knee as Lopo came up beside him. Hand instinctually grabbed horn until the shuddering stopped. And when it did, John realized that they had only traded one danger for another.

He looked over his shoulder and up into the spiraled belly of a seven foot tall poliwrath. Its shadow towered over them. Water droplets condensed on his saturated skin. They pooled into a thick liquid layer of energized water across the giant tadpole pokemon's stomach. It was then that John realized why the House bet was stacked against him. The match tonight was supposed to be a full party battle, and Lieutenant Vaughn had removed Pharaoh's from the equation. The only pokemon in John's lineup that mattered was Lopo, and Onyx intended to break the houndoom by breaking its trainer.

" _Hydropump_!" 66 screamed.

Poliwrath unleashed it with a roar. It was too big and too fast to dodge even with a _fainting teleport_. Unless it had a little push. John shoved Lopo out to the side and sprang to his feet. The houndoom vanished out of the stumble at the same time John crossed his arms over his face. The torrent hit the trainer full blast, throwing him backwards until he slammed into the bars of the Cage. But Poliwrath wasn't satisfied with just a mild concussion. According to his contract, he needed complete and utter destruction. More water pumped out of his gapping pores. But taking relentless hits face first was John's specialty.

And fighting back was Lopo's.

The houndoom reappeared behind Poliwrath. Moving a heavy weight at peak power with sheer force wouldn't work. Whittling him down to discomfort was the only way to change his stance. That was, if John didn't drown while standing up first. Lopo spread his jaws in a fiery hot spiral of determination. The _flamethrower_ hit Poliwrath's back. Steam boiled out of his pores. Not even his spongey skin could withstand the heat of the fire canine's cannon. Poliwrath dropped his attack and John fell to the floor in a water logged fit of coughing.

Poliwrath raised a hand to shield his head as the unending torrent of flames narrowed into a super powered jet that whistled from the fire canine's lips. His white palm turned black underneath its strength. The torch even threatened to burn through his fingers but its power suddenly weakened. The flames thinned as the canine's lungs finally collapsed. Such a narrow stream couldn't be held forever without replenishing the oxygen supply. Poliwrath swiped away the last of the flames, exposing his large belly. A basketball sized _fire blast_ exploded against it. He tottered back in the recoil. A concentrated _blast_ like that packed more of a punch, but the aftereffect was momentary for a giant like him. Poliwrath charged, closing the distance between him and the canine.

Lopo hurled another fireball. Poliwrath kept up his pace. This _blast_ was smaller than the first so one swat batted it away. The subsequent explosion flung his arm out to the side with more recoil than before. The attacks were getting stronger, more condensed, but Poliwrath couldn't stop now, not when he was almost within touching distance. It was also the exact distance Lopo required to protect John from a full strength attack. The houndoom planted all four feet firmly on the floor, dropped his tail, and whistled out a fiery spitball using every ounce of fire energy in his flesh.

Small, compact, and ear splitting, it snipered Poliwrath in the right eye. The following pinpoint explosion tipped the giant off of his feet. As he fell, the rushing air blew away the smoke, revealing a crescent of flesh missing from the pokemon's head. The wound was seared shut by the time Poliwrath hit the floor. On the other side of the Cage, John lifted his head as the platform shuddered again. The distinct smell of burnt flesh seared his nose. There was only one attack in the houndoom's arsenal capable of such devastating and violent domination.

 _Flame bullet_ : A _fire blast_ , condensed into a miniature sun.

When propelled by a laser like _flamethrower_ and enhanced by a _flash fire_ , the attack moved faster than the eye could follow. It was a combo attack inspired by the legacy of an old friend. Cruelly destructive, it's only weakness was a recharge time worse than a _hyper beam_. Lopo couldn't utter a cinder, even when another pokemon materialized on the battlefield to take its predecessor's place. A rhydon charged across the platform on all four feet. He _bulldozed_ into the canine from behind. Lopo went under in a yelp and rolled out from underneath him but Rhydon's heavy steps didn't stop. They chased Poliwrath's watery trail back to their original target.

John.

The trainer propped up onto an elbow. The rhythmic shuddering of the oncoming freight train shook him by the bones. He glanced to the side and saw Banette beside him. She had finally recovered from the previous _flame blast_ and attempted to keep him pressed against the platform until her party pokemon arrived. For a human, shrugging off a ghost was like shrugging off a curse. Luckily, John was immune to superstition . . . and doused in pokemon energized water. He reached out and grabbed Banette by the sleeve. No ghost would slip out of his grasp with a _hydropump_ between his fingers. A mighty heave threw the marionette on a collision course with her party pokemon. The drill pokemon didn't attempt to dodge, slow, or stop. Banette flew straight into his spinning _drill horn_ and vanished in a puff of smoke.

The KO buzzer didn't stand a chance against the thundering roar barreling across the Cage. John staggered to his feet and ran along the circle of the platform but the two-ton torpedo only curved to keep in line with him. John sharply pivoted against the Cage wall using his linoone for inspiration but it wasn't enough to throw off his pursuer. Lopo limped back to his feet and anticipated the next rushing pass. He flickered in a _faint attack_ and reappeared in a flying leap past John, moving in the opposite direction, straight into Rhydon's charge. John instinctually jerked to a stop at the dark pokemon's passing. Lopo kept going. He rammed into the side of Rhydon's head, pushing the _drill run_ off course and into the Cage. Metal screamed and bent underneath it. Rhydon grunted and pulled himself out of the twisted wreckage.

The damage was little but the intervention created enough time and distance for Lopo to place himself between John and the juggernaut. Horn met horn as Rhydon lifted and dropped from two to four feet in a series of _horn attacks_. Lopo diverted each, tossing his head and using his ridged spirals like a Viking's shield. But Rhydon's weight showed in every blow, forcing the pair backwards in retreat after every deflection. John kept his feet in motion. He jumped backwards and shifted when needed to give Lopo room to maneuver in the recoil, being careful not to diverge from the canine's shadow should his sudden exposure break the stalemate. It was only a matter of time until the difference in size buckled the canine's neck.

Rhydon bellowed and sharply cut from low to high in another _drilling_ slash of his horn. Lopo knocked it upwards, further along its path. His head then flickered down with the speed of a _faint_ , faster than Rhydon could drop his chin. Both horns jumped up into a double horn uppercut under the drill pokemon's jaw. Rhydon's teeth clacked together. The soft under skin of his jaw slung off as he flew up onto two feet and toppled backwards to the floor. John half expected to hear the _ding_ of a boxing round. Lopo only heard the low and nearly inaudible buzz of rising energy. His fur bristled to needle points.

Another attack was coming and it wasn't from Rhydon.

Lopo lowered his hips and hopped backwards so that when he ran into John, the trainer fell across the canine's back. Lopo lifted his hips in a hop. John's legs bounced up and a _shockwave_ electrified the floor in crackling sparks. Energy ran up the houndoom's legs. Electricity chased into his anklets, pooling around the organic conductors in sporadic jagged flares. John's legs swung downward with the purpose of standing up and unburdening the houndoom. But the attack wasn't over yet, and with a water logged floor, those Egyptian sandals would burst into flame upon contact. Lopo tilted his head down and snorted out a _flamethrower_. It splashed upwards underneath him, forcing John's feet back up and away from the floor. The sharp crackling current ended several seconds later.

Lopo's body relaxed in fatigue, and with the weight of the fighter on top of him, the two collapsed on the floor. John quickly propped himself up and pulled away. Strong as the houndoom may be, his lungs couldn't bench press over 200 lbs. Lopo remained on the floor, his lips frozen in a silent snarl from _paralysis_. John reached out to assess the damage and a spark jumped between the boney armor and his fingers. He quickly pulled away in a curse as another rumbling earthquake shook the platform. Rhydon was coming. John flung himself away from the canine's side moments before the drill pokemon rammed his head into the platform. Steel and iron shredded faster than tissue paper underneath his spinning horn.

John rolled onto his stomach and glanced at Lopo. The canine twitched in a furious attempt to overcome the _paralysis_ , struggling between limpness and rigidity with every movement. His paws were inches away from Rhydon's thickly nailed feet. One step and even the great god Anubis would be quelled. Luckily, the enemy's eyes were aimed at only one thing and John just so happened to be it. He scrambled to his feet and baited the target on his back with several enticing whistles. Shoulders low, eyes sharp, and feet carefully poised, he slowly turned all danger away from the immobile canine and onto himself.

What else was new?

Rhydon grunted. Dust and plaster spewed from his head as another _horn drill_ spun to life. Murderous chainsaws had a similar sound. John dryly swallowed down the horror, only to heave it up again when he realized that he hadn't saved Lopo from anything. Like in all thriller plot twists, there was always more than one bad guy. An electabuzz walked over to Lopo now that John and Rhydon had shifted away from the canine. Sparks jumped from his yellow and black fists in sparklers of energy. The localized _shockwaves_ intended to knock the houndoom down if he managed to rise to his feet again. Attacking now with electricity still surging through the canine's system would cause neurological damage, and Onyx wouldn't stand for that. Neither would John. The trainer whirled around in sprint across the platform with a rhydon sized shadow following him.

Call him names, beat him senseless, and strip him of his dignity. Fine. But cheat him of a match at the expense of his pokemon? Never. There would be no forgiveness.

Only a reckoning.


	38. Heart of a Champion: 4

**Heart of the Champion: 4**

Physics.

Force equals mass times acceleration. An object in motion will stay in motion unless compelled to change by the forces upon it. For every action, there is an equal and opposite re-action.

And for every idiot, there's a force that compels them towards an accelerating path of insanity. The thought currently flying through John's mind as fast as the wind in his lungs wasn't rational. It wasn't even clever. But the force currently compelling him into a wind sprint across the Cage wasn't exactly reasonable. It was a near one ton mass of gray armor plated pokemon that wanted nothing more than to flatten him better than a pancake. So John made his calculations, flipped-the-bird to gravity and sanity, and leapt for the metal dome above him.

He grabbed the overhanging bars, curled in a full body pull up, and released his grip the moment Rhydon came underneath him. Using ears for handle bars, the trainer straddled the pokemon and hung on for dear life. Rhydon flailed. He thundered between four and two legs, but no matter how much he thrashed, shook his head, or scratched, the rider couldn't be dislodged. When Rhydon stood, John extended his legs to rest at the base of the pokemon's tail. The trainer wiggled from side to side in every stiff arm reach over the shoulder, across the body, and under the arm.

A quick tuck here. A shift there and John flexed into whatever position best suited him. All those years of bucking broncos in the Valley Ranches had finally paid off. Rhydon snorted his frustration, dropped to all fours, and set his eyes on the Cage itself. If he couldn't scratch the flea, he'd crush it, but a body throw in open space might fling the rider into the safety of distance. Flipping into a corner, however, hampered an easy means of escape for an unwanted pest. The drill pokemon raced for the junction of platform and dome.

Luckily, over the shoulder body rolls were John's specialty.

He released his hold and jumped off as Rhydon's shoulder dipped and collided with the Cage wall. The metal couldn't stop the heavy weight. It broke and Rhydon rolled into the surrounding equipment to the ecstatic screams of the public. John tumbled to a stop at the open edge. With shaking hands and a heaving chest, he hurried to his feet and stood in front of the gaping hole. Nearly half of the Cage was gone, opening the battle to the arena and its devilish crowds. Outside, wires popped and speakers blew. Emergency personal rushed to the site of the fallen pokemon where it snarled and bellowed in the wreckage. Before Pharaoh's ascension, the Cage House had not witnessed such compelling dramatics for decades. Red lights flashed. Buzzers sounded. Panic, elation, and confusion bombarded the senses.

John could barely catch his breath from the ride. He stepped backwards, slipped on the _hydropump_ residue, and fell to the floor in a polluted wash of adrenaline and exhaustion. Across the platform behind him, 66 clenched his teeth together. But before the Polisher could express his frustrations, the entry gate behind him suddenly opened. Two grunts in full raiding gear rushed in with rifles in hand. For a moment, the acting B.A. thought the authorities had weedled their way into the mix, but their numbers, freshly cleaned weapons, and well timed appearance was too organized for lawmen. Even Electabuzz quickly turned towards the grunts as they stepped in front of 66 on either side.

"He's trying to escape," one of the grunts flatly announced. Both raised their weapons in a rehearsed motion at John.

Time stopped.

Every living thing in the Cage House suddenly experienced the sensation. At this moment, pure unbridled sensory interpretation took over. It was a primordial reaction. One creatures used to survive throughout the millennia. For Lopo, he had enough experience, past and present, to know that time wasn't still. The only thing unable to move right now was thought. But then again, he didn't need to think, because he already knew what it was that he had to do.

The grunts took aim. Lopo shakily pushed to his feet. _Paralysis_ stiffened his body in place. Luckily, he didn't need to run to get where he was going or to think in order to act. The grunts fired off several rounds from their semi-automatic weapons. Peppering gunfire filled the arena. John flinched into a sitting ball as several bullets suddenly pegged the floor beside him and pinged off of the surrounding metal. With so many bullets, it was inevitable that one should hit its mark. And it did, or would have, if another mark hadn't taken its place.

Lopo appeared at John's back, facing the spray. One bullet nicked his shoulder, a second chipped a horn, and a third bit into his skin. The houndoom staggered lightly to the side.

"You idiots," 66 yelled, waving an order for Electabuzz to disable the grunts. They went down in matching _thunder punches_. "Not the hound!"

Lopo attempted to lift his head in a _flamethrower_ but only managed a wet inhale before he stumbled forward and collapsed. His horns knocked heavily against the platform. Someone started screaming and John realized that it was him. Having caught only a glimpse of the fall, he crawled over to the houndoom. Blood gushed from a bullet hole in the side of the canine's neck, the muscles around it twitching as if they could push the metal out. Lopo glanced at the trainer. The whites of his eyes screamed against the black of his coat.

John swore an oath of curses. He couldn't find the wound right away in the darkness of the canine's fur, especially when its entire surface glistened with blood.

It was just a scratch. It had to be.

John pulled his hand away. Dark red blood stained his palm like finger-paint.

It wasn't just a scratch.

" _Fuck_!"

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but furiously press his hands over the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Lopo coughed up even more in a violent shudder.

 _Think. Think_! The wound had missed the jugular but it probably nicked another artery and that's why it was bleeding so profusely. Removing the bullet was out of the question. If he could just stop the bleeding and get Lopo to a clinic, the wound might be treatable. More red stain squeezed itself through the seams of John's fingers and climbed up his bandages to his wrists. Lopo attempted to get up. He could hear Rhydon throwing the wreckage off of his back. Electabuzz and 66 were looking their way. The battle wasn't over yet.

"No-no, _ssssh_!" John shakily insisted. Sweat ran down his brow but Instead of wiping it away, he removed one hand from the wound to hold down the canine's head. Blood gurgled out from underneath his fingers in the weakened pressure. Its warm touch caressed the trainer's knees and spread onto the floor. John lowered his head in a sharp utterance and placed both hands on top of one another once more. He couldn't stop the bleeding. He wasn't a Ranger, Researcher, or even a real Ace. Once again, he could only watch as the actions of others dictated the course of his life.

 _That was it!_

John lifted his head, fresh tear stains down his cheeks. They smeared the black makeup around his eyes. _He_ couldn't do anything, but Lopo could. If the canine cauterized the wound with fire, it would buy them enough time to stabilize the injury in a pokeball and find a clinic capable of patching it up. There was still hope. Neither of them had to die today.

"Give me a flame, Lopo. Give me a flame and I'll stop the bleeding," John urged.

Lopo coughed and relaxed his head. He kicked a leg but it wasn't strong enough to move the rubble across the floor. There was no way his lips would ever reach the wound. John dragged the canine up onto his lap and held his arm close to the canine's mouth.

"Here!" he urged. "Light the bandages!"

Lopo lulled his head closer, unable to focus. His tongue hung from his mouth without as much as cold puff of smoke. John clenched the offered hand tightly into a fist. What was he thinking? Even if Lopo could produce a flame, his bandages would never catch on fire. He was up to his elbows in blood. Literally. John adjusted his hands over the wound again, struggling to find the best placement in a slippery clutch. The muscles underneath began to relax. Lopo's weight pressed heavily into John's lap and his breathing became shallow. John hugged the canine closer, leaning his full weight against the wound as if his spirit could burn hot enough to sear it shut.

"Don't give up," he cried. "Keep fighting!" The fire in the canine's eyes softened. "You can't go to sleep just yet!" Lopo slowly looked away at something that filled his face with peace. Relief. John sobbed, his grip weakening against the slick blood now spreading around the bandages on his chest.

"Don't do this to me," he pleaded. "Stay with me."

That tiny flame in Lopo's eyes flickered with the twinkle of a dying star. The distance between him and that celestial light shortened.

"I know you want to see her again," John whispered, rocking lightly with the canine in his lap. "But you're _my_ pokemon now and I don't want you to leave me."

Lopo sighed softly, anticipating what was to come. John squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head into the houndoom's. "I know how much you miss Aria," he confessed. "And I know that I can never connect with you the same way she did, but that doesn't mean I won't love you any less."

John opened his eyes in a sniffle but it was too late to draw back the tears dripping from his chin, or the heart felt admissions burning in his chest. He could only let it out to mix with the blackish red tide gnawing at his bandages.

"I would never forgive myself if I kept you from her," John continued, softly, tenderly, knowing that if Lopo settled for him, he was settling for last place. "But, if you stay with me. I want it to be your choice. Not your duty."

Lopo caught a flicker of another bright light, one heading in the opposite direction from the stars above. He turned an eye at John. They couldn't see each other while hugged so tightly together but Lopo could feel the two powerful arms wrapped around him. They shook with exhaustion, yet refused to give in. They would fall off before they ever let go. Lopo slowly looked back into the celestial clouds.

The weight of his body pained him. He knew how much lighter it would be on the other side. He could feel the pressure lifting already. The pressure of all that darkness inside of him vanishing in the sweet warm light of death blossoming in his eyes. Everything he ever wanted was in that light. Happiness was there.

Aria was there.

And there was nothing to hold him back. John had already released him of his obligation, pokeball be damned. _This_ was his choice and the light growing brighter by the second was _so_ beautiful . . . Lopo slowly closed his eyes.

But then again, what would a houndoom be without its darkness?

Especially, when there was something just as warm and bright as that celestial light already wrapped around him.

The fire canine's skin suddenly tensed. It grew hotter until John was forced to lift his head and hands away from the wound. Using a _flash fire_ to magnify his internal heat, Lopo boiled the energized platelets in his blood and scabbed over the wound. It would leave permanent damage to the rest of his body, but the bleeding stopped. John choked out a smile. The acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but right now, it was better than a blooming orchard. Lopo opened his eyes. They didn't make it past a sliver, but they were open, and that's all that mattered. Lopo hadn't given up on life, or on him. John hugged the canine tight again because now, the houndoom was officially his.

It was a choice both of them had made together.

It was a choice Aria had always hoped the houndoom would make. After all, she knew more about what pokemon needed than the pokemon themselves, and for a houndoom, it was a flame strong enough to light the way through his darkness.

Despite, the Cage's best attempts, the match wasn't over just yet. The god of the underworld wasn't dead, and neither was his divine disciple.

66 planned to correct the latter.

He advanced upon the pokemon and trainer huddled on the floor. "I guess I should be thanking you, _Pharaoh_ ," he exclaimed. "My contract stipulated that the hound be left alive. I would've been in big trouble if he didn't make it through the match."

John looked up with a glare as serious as the blood speckled across his face. 66 and Electabuzz stopped just a few paces away. Two _thunder punches_ tightened the pokemon's black and yellow fists. Electricity sparked across his knuckles. John held Lopo closer to his chest, turning his shoulder to the Polisher as if to shield the canine from him and his mal intent. 66 scoffed.

"Give it up, boy. You were dead the moment you were sold to the Cage."

"Now, that doesn't sound very sportsman like," a voice interjected. "Pokemon battling is supposed to be a gentleman's sport."

66 glanced beyond John to the hole in the Cage. A man hopped up onto the platform from the outside. There was an ease in which he jumped that made him capable of bringing down the rest of the Cage despite the softness of his touch. A pair of riding goggles covered his eyes and a worn bandana covered the lower half of his face. The man strolled a little closer and stopped a few feet away from John. With the snap of a gunslinger, he popped two pokeballs off of his belt with one hand. 66 pinched his eyes at the desperado. But whatever the interloper wanted, it wouldn't matter. Rhydon threw the last of the debris off of his back and turned to the Cage. The Polisher now had two pokemon pistols already drawn and aimed. The outlaw didn't stand a chance.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are," he began but the underground cowboy quickly cut him off.

"You don't know who I am?" he answered with a point to himself. The stranger quickly lifted the goggles onto his forehead and pulled down the bandana with a smile even sharper than his steel grey eyes.

"I'm Liam fucking Valenis."

Two energy streams swirled out from his pokeballs in a fantastic show of multicolored energy. One quilava splashed onto the platform between Liam and John and introduced himself with a finely tuned burst of flame. The second energy stream solidified before reaching solid ground, so that as the swampert inside materialized, he landed outside of the Cage between Rhydon and Liam. The thunderous rattle of impact transitioned into the bellow of a _hydro cannon_ that knocked the drill pokemon off of his feet and across the House. Beats unleashed his own energies. He connected the torch on his head to that on his tail in a razor edge of fire down his back. The quilava then launched himself into motion with a _flame charge_ that transitioned into a _defense curl_. He flew over John and struck Electabuzz harder than a pinball. The electric pokemon flew back into his trainer and the two crashed to the floor, setting off both _thunder punches_ like premature land mines. Yellow electricity sparked across the Cage. John never felt the surge as he turned to Liam with as much haste as gratitude.

"Lopo's ball!" he shouted. Lopo may have stopped the bleeding, but if he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't last through the hour.

"Already on it!" Liam answered with a sharp whistle and wave to someone in the outside crowd. The recipient nodded and turned away from the Cage with eyes set on a pair of Lieutenant's arguing on the walkway leading to the backstage tunnel.

"Sapphire will have your head for this!" the first shouted. Clad in sea blue from head to foot, Second Lieutenant Giles took Onyx's first Lieutenant, Vaughn by the collar. "The Cage is her domain! You can't just-"A shudder down the walkway cut off the rest. Vaughn swiped Giles' grip away and turned around to find Hell Raiser making his debut in the Cage House. Marcus cracked his knuckles as he walked towards them.

"Which one of you works for the dictator?" he demanded. His wide grin settled on the most likely choice. The only lieutenant out of the two that didn't shit his pants and run off: Vaughn. Marcus pointed a nubby finger at him. "I believe you've got somethin' that don't belong to you."

Lieutenant Vaughn snapped off a pokeball, never once removing his eyes from the oncoming threat. "You're in the wrong House, Hell Boy," he drily replied. To emphasize the point, he threw a pokeball in the air and a pinsir materialized on the freeway between the two men. His teeth rippled in a creaky chatter. The two spiked pincers on his head opened in a _vicegrip_. Without waiting for Marcus to draw, Vaughn order the strike. Pinsir charged but his hopes of cutting the fighter in two ended within arm's reach. Marcus grabbed a horn in each hand and pushed against the stag beetle hard enough to keep them at a standstill, but not enough to break a sweat.

"Now, Benny!" the fighter yelled.

With precision aim, the tongue of a kecleon suddenly latched itself onto the second pokebelt looped on the lieutenant's side. Vaughn grabbed the belt, keeping it in place but not the friend ball attached to it. Kecleon yanked it free. His tongue whirled back into his mouth and brought the ball between his scaly green lips. Mr. Bentley came up beside his color swap pokemon and removed the ball with a flick of sticky saliva. One of six was hardly good for his reputation, but it would do.

"Why not shout a little louder next time and let them know what's coming," Mr. Bentley chided across the House. Marcus glared at him from over the beetle pokemon. Below, Pinsir struggled to push or pull his way out of the fighter's grip. His spiked feet slipped on the floor, neither moving backwards nor forwards.

"And its _Mr_. Bentley to you," Benny added before he threw the friend ball in a high arch towards the fighter. With both hands tied, Marcus couldn't reach for it, but his shoulder made the perfect launch pad for another set of hands. Zoro jumped off of the flexing muscle and caught the pokeball in a flip. He landed in a dash across the walkway that brought him to the Cage platform. One hop landed him inside the broken dome and another on Liam's shoulder. The ace took the friend ball and tossed it to its rightful owner. John caught it in a wet slap of metal and blood, initiating a withdrawal before he even lowered his arm. Lopo slipped inside without resistance and the trainer quickly minimized the ball.

"He's got the rest of my pokemon!" John exclaimed in reference to the Lieutenant.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Marcus droned from the platform. He could pinpoint that grating voice for miles. Pinsir hissed again when his feet suddenly lifted off of the floor. Marcus hurled the beetle across the room with a spinning _seismic toss_ of his own design.

"What are you doing? Don't just stand there!" Vaughn ordered with a glance to the nearby security personal stunned into silence by the gladiatorial feat. "Take him out!"

The two grunts looked at one another and traded their electrified batons for pokeballs. If spiked armored pokemon couldn't get close enough to strike. They sure as hell wouldn't try. Two koffing materialized on the walkway. They tooted and honked in oblivious enthusiasm. Marcus ground his teeth into a smile. He always loved popping balloons at a party, but Lieutenant Vaughn wasn't here to celebrate. He quickly retreated behind the pawns and took off down the tunnel.

"Benny!" Marcus yelled again. With four opponents in front of him, he couldn't stop the Lieutenant from leaving. Unfortunately, the body guard had problems of his own.

"I'm a little busy right now," Mr. Bentley replied, eyes on the arena floor where he and his kecleon managed to outrun the spray of an _ember_. Despite his first impression of the House bouncers, they were doing a good job pinning him down. With fights breaking out across the House, some of the spectators joined in on the action while others fled for the safety of the outdoors. Getting back at a rival didn't end at the House gates, especially when security was preoccupied somewhere else. Thus was the nature of the Underground, but not everyone inside of it.

John looked to Liam and Zoro.

"Go. We'll hold'em off," Liam instructed. "You know this place better than we do!"

John nodded and climbed to his feet. Liam paused with a startled look on his face when he saw the trainer at full height. Blood soaked bandages wrapped him tighter than a swimmer's skin suit. It looked like the trainer had been murdered, and was about to pay the trespasser in kind.

"Here," Liam exclaimed with a shake of his head to clear the unholy vision. He pulled another pokeball off of his belt. "You'll need a little help until you get your party back. No need for commands. She knows what to do. Taking care of hatchlings is her specialty."

John wasn't sure what that meant, or why Liam winked, but right now, he needed all of the help he could get. He snatched the ball out of the air and rushed past the Ace, leaving 66 and his unfinished curse behind. The Polisher separated from his pokemon. He wasn't about to let his contract end so easily. Electabuzz gathered sparks into his fists once more. He'd _punch_ every knuckle in the ground with a _shockwave_ strong enough to paralyze everyone and everything in the Cage House. Liam saluted the effort with two fingers.

"Sorry, but I've seen that move before," he said with a click of his heels.

Hamilton, the swampert, jumped onto the Cage platform from the hole in the dome. Beats was already in a withdrawal as the giant tugboat pokemon pranced forward. Each lumbering hop pounded the energy of a _mud sport_ into the platform. Its foundation cracked better than a sheet of ice, dislodging Electabuzz, 66, and Liam off of their feet. The only thing capable of paralyzing them now was fear, and the only ones that had it were the grunts failing to restrain the professional MMA fighter blocking the way to the collapsing Cage stage. A straight left put one grunt on the ground and a hard right had his pokemon doing the same. Marcus looked up as John hopped past them.

The distraction was enough for a third grunt to take his chance. He swung with a crackle of blue energy along his baton. It stopped inches from Marcus head in a single overwhelming snatch of the wrist. John heard the crackle and jarred to a stop. Despite the miracle that was Marcus Hailbringer, even organic tissue could succumb to enouch electrocution. The trainer whirled around but Marcus had no trouble holding the attacker mid swing. He even took a moment to look at the bandaged bloodied trainer ahead of him.

"Word of advice," Marcus said before he twisted the baton out of the grunt's hand. "Don't look back-

-unless you plan on coming back," John finished.

Life Lesson #36.

The two shared a small grin. John had no doubts now continuing the pursuit. Liam would cover 66, Marcus had the grunts in his grasp, and Mr. Bentley would fill the spots in between. Hope was still alive and starting to come around again. John nodded and disappeared down the corridor after Lieutenant Vaughn.

Marcus watched him go. At the length of that stride, the trainer might just be able to catch up. Marcus scoffed at the thought and channeled his resentment into the gut of the nearest grunt. The poor sucker lost of all the bread in his basket. Mr. Bentley and Kecleon hopped up onto the walkway, shoving aside the fallen grunt to stand side by side with Marcus. Neither looked at one another. They couldn't. Not with the body count multiplying as quickly as it was, and especially not when reinforcements flooded in from the side entrances. There were even two volunteers descending from the VIP lounge to join the fun.

"And to think today was just supposed to be a recon mission for the real rescue," Mr. Bentley grumbled. "You know the odds of getting out of here alive are a fraction of a percent, right?"

"That still doesn't sound like zero," Marcus reminded.

Both men flinched as another _hydro cannon_ suddenly blew out a second hole in the Cage dome, carrying with it, Electabuzz, 66, two other pokemon, and their consciousness. A third blast cleared half of the Cage House in one sweep. Liam withdrew Hamilton and jumped out of the Cage before the rest of it collapsed on top of him. He looked back at the settling wreckage and dusted off his shoulder while Zoro cleared the path ahead of them. The five reconvened on the walkway.

"I hope you know that we're all gonna die," Mr. Bentley exclaimed.

"Don't worry," Liam reassured. "I have the insurance to cover it."

" _Incoming_!" Marcus warned. The three ducked under a sudden shower of fireballs that exploded against the wall beside them.

"This wasn't the plan," Mr. Bentley reiterated as they diverged into the tunnel John and Lieutenant Vaughn had vacated. More rifle shots sounded.

"Neither was watching an execution," Liam explained. He glanced around the arena and thinning crowd. More guards were on their way, and this time, there weren't any pedestrians to slow them down. He glanced through the tunnel. There weren't any black sweaters and berates that way.

"I gave John my word," he said. "Let's hold off these bastards as long as we can."

Another shower of attacks pushed the group deeper into the tunnel. Liam waved away the fiery sparks. "But we can do that while looking for an exit!"


	39. Heart of a Champion: 5

**Heart of a Champion: 5**

It was a hunt, and if John wasn't a professional zigzagoon trainer, he would have lost the trail three turns ago. Career criminals often made it a point to know how to give someone the slip, but John wasn't worried. He was gaining ground. And Lieutenant Vaughn must have noticed because he sacrificed what little lead he had to whirl around and throw out an Ultra Ball. A stream of energy flew out just as hastily, poisoning the energy as it pooled into a dark purple mass on the floor. Lieutenant Vaughn didn't bother to wait for the materialization to dissipate or even attempt to catch the Ultra Ball from the energy rebound. He was already down the far end of the hallway by the time the pokeball hit the floor and rolled away in the opposite direction.

John tripped over it as he rounded the corner. He stumbled to a stop mere inches away from an oversized pile of pond scum amassing itself in the hallway. Elastic organic _yuck_ flattened and pulled against itself as the pokemon kneaded into form. John had never seen a muk before. His purified mountain life filtered out such toxic species, but that didn't stop him from recognizing the putrid acerbic stench of an enemy, with or without the accompanying noxious fumes. Muk slopped two heavy arms against his amorphous body, giving a clue as to where his head might be. John retreated several steps, gauging the enormity of this new found obstacle.

There was no room to bypass Muk without dredging ankle deep in purple bile. Even with a height advantage, John might catch a shin trying to leap over the sludge pokemon. And retreating was as much of an option as abandoning his pokemon. There was only one way through, and that was straight down the middle. John looked at the pokeballs in his hands. Lopo couldn't fight. Not in that condition, not ever again if John could help it, and without a pokebelt to his name, there was only one other option. The Ultra Ball Liam had so eagerly loaned him. Nothing about it was ordinary. It was custom painted with a fire resistant lacquer and design. The pokemon inside was probably worth its weight in gold and even more in victories.

It wouldn't be the first time John borrowed a pokemon from the celebrity ace, and Liam wouldn't have offered if he didn't have a backup plan. Then again, spontaneity was a Valenis family trait. So was success. John prayed that the two went hand in hand. He pressed the release and the energy came out so hot that it instantaneously caught on fire in a spray of cinders. Light and heat tightened into plasma that burned with fresh oxygen. The flames grew hotter as they descended, splashing a white hot blue against the floor before the matter vacuum sucked the energy together and solidified the materialization.

A typhlosion appeared in the hallway between John and Muk. It was a female judging from her narrow shoulders and extra-long body. She was more tuxedo than bicolor with a deep teal cloak that pulled inspiration from the farthest depths of the ocean. She materialized standing on two feet, nose at the forefront, and eyes aimed even further. Acting as a sentry must have been her calling because it took less than a flash of energy for her to understand the nature of the enemy before her.

The volcano pokemon dropped to all fours, arched her back, and lifted her shoulders in a massaging rub that set the oils and salts in her skin on fire. The flames burned like her materialization, hot and fast, so much so that they streamlined upward to a point. No reds. No yellows or oranges. Only a single white flame that burned blue along the outer rim. It did not flicker or roar but hummed and glowed like a torch made of living ice. Her flames burned, not to consume, but to solder together that which would not come together on its own. The character to the flame was more valuable than any shiny pokemon caught in the wild or bred in a research lab. John recognized the typhlosion from future Liam's retired collection.

This was Sonya, the Blue Comet, winner of 7 regional and interregional gym badges, back to back starter for two Elite Challenges, circuit tournament Champion under the officiation of five different sponsors, and the reason Liam trusted a weakling like John behind his pokemon.

Sonya was Beats' mother.

This pokemon was known to burn off the hands of anyone foolish enough to touch her brood without her consent. She was used to playing protector. And right now, in the darkness of the underground, she shined like the sword of an archangel. Sonya turned an eye back at John. He stiffened to attention. Her head moved no more than it had to, seeing exactly what it was she was tasked to protect. John knew himself to be a poor charge. He could never be more valuable than the runt of her weakest litter. After all, this was the pokemon whose growl rumbled like volcanic hot spots and whose internal flame was hot enough to boil oceans. She was a true volcanic testament. But apparently, even chalky charcoal based trainers like John were worth something because Sonya turned her gaze away, shifted in front of the trainer, and opened her mouth in a _flamethrower_ as blue as her back.

The influx of oxygen elongated the typhlosion's torch, creating a fin along her back to slice through the ocean of fire she created. John protected himself from the sudden onslaught of heat and light. Muk only screamed as the flames accelerated to solar flare proportions when they came in contact with the flammable gases pooling around his body. They exploded against his skin and John backpedaled into the wall from the concussion. Sonya used the breeze to brush her torch back down to normal levels. Fire alarms went off in the hallway. They spun and flashed in warning of an attack that was already over.

Muk lay smoldering in the middle of the hallway, reduced down to half of his original size and growing smaller by the minute. With nothing left to burn, the flames sputtered out. Black crusted skin flaked away into floating ash. Scorch marks blackened the walls in heavy lines beside the desecrated remains. Sonya looked at John again. He quickly swallowed the lump in his throat and hopped up to stand beside her. They hadn't lost much time. Flames made quick work of poison types, especially when they burned like the belly of a mountain with a magma sized tummy ache. With John's direction and Sonya's speed, they had a real chance of catching Lieutenant Vaughn, especially when they knew where he was headed. He sought refuge from the boogeyman lurking in the underground. If he made it to Onyx, Marco, Athena, Saul, and Charles would be doomed.

"We've got to catch him before he hits the dungeon," John said.

He placed a hand on Sonya's back and she lowered at the invitation but the heat pushed his fingertips away. The oil in her fur was still as hot as a frying pan. She turned a silver eye to him once more. Would he take the leap? John had never ridden a typhlosion before but he didn't spend his weekends at the ponyta ranches for nothing. John climbed onto the volcano pokemon's back. The warmth seeping into his legs brought him back to his childhood and the days he spent riding Aria's fire canine's. How could this be any different? John got his answer when the typhlosion suddenly took off before he had a firm grip. The trainer nearly slid off of Sonya's back in a fit of whiplash. It was almost as bad as riding a rampaging Rhydon.

Luckily, Sonya wasn't intentionally trying to toss him.

Or so John hoped.

As a professional improviser, he quickly adjusted to the feel of her body. The seat was looser and longer than what he was used to, forcing more adjustments with every turn to keep in line with the volcano pokemon's body. Trying to hang onto the slippery helmet of a tentacruel while it tried to spin you off in a game of carnival toss wasn't easy either. John's experience as a pokemon rider, for the willing and unwilling, gave him the skills needed to compensate for the pokemon's lack in experience with a rider. Lieutenant Vaughn's coat tails rounded the next corner. They were catching up.

Sonya descended a staircase that curved into another corridor. Her sharp clawed feet scratched around another corner but it was too sharp for her to use the wall as a pivoting platform. John's added weight wouldn't allow for such nimble gymnastics. They were going to slide into it. John expected as much. He leaned against the centrifugal force of the turn and tucked up the leg closest to the wall, so that as they slid into it, neither foot nor femur was crushed against the concrete.

They rocked to a standstill in the recoil. Lieutenant Vaughn stood not thirty feet away from them . . . behind two pokemon proof, bullet proof, customized locked doors.

They were too late.

Vaughn waved in the window of the inner set of doors as they sealed shut. Sonya's lips rippled in a growl. She turned an eye back at her rider with a sharp bark but John already had one foot on the floor. The warming skin underneath him was warning enough. He spun off of the pokemon's back as she took off in a sprint for the doors. Each step gained more and more ground until she launched into a full blown _rollout_ that spun so fast that the friction of the air against her coat lit her body on fire.

The typhlosion blew through both sets of doors better than a tank.

Glass shattered in a spray of tinkling pieces. Reinforced plastic bent outwards and metal hinges snapped out of place. Debris flew down the inner hallway, blowing past Lieutenant Vaughn faster than an air cannon. He barely avoided Sonya as she spun to a stop flat on her belly several feet down the corridor. Her flames puffed out as she did so, allowing him a Hail Mary play past her, and further into the underground fortress. John wobbled his way as quickly as he could through the wreckage. His wrapped feet didn't protect him against the razor sharp edges of glass shards like the Lieutenant's steel boots. Vaughn darted into a far corridor.

John came up beside Sonya, gave her a nod as she recovered, and trotted down the hall ahead of her after the Lieutenant. A flash of materialization lit up the second hallway. Even shadows as deep as these couldn't hid the release of another enemy. John quickly flattened against the wall of the corner, his footsteps as silent as the dark path in front of him. There was no screech or siren in the darkness. Claws didn't scratch. Wings didn't flap. He'd have to risk a glance in order to identify their next challenge. John lined up along the stone and slowly leaned an eye around the edge. Fireballs careened towards him. One or two soared by in a miss. The rest exploded against the wall, singeing the trainer's eyebrow as he pulled away in a flinch. The stone didn't even cool before Sonya stomped past him on all fours.

"Sonya, wait!" John warned but the typhlosion was already in the opening of the corridor.

Lieutenant Vaughn and his magmar stood halfway down, already prepared for her advance. One shout released a pending _fire spin_. The thick flaming ring spun outwards down the hallway. Sonya remained completely still. After all, she understood fire better than any of her type because of her unique flame. _Fire spins_ were intimidating long range attacks . . . only when you panicked. At this distance, the heat of the flames pushed the ring outwards so that by the time it reached Sonya, its empty center offered safe passage. She easily hopped through the ring, landed in a crouch, and threw her shoulders ablaze.

John trotted into view behind the typhlosion after the _spin_ passed. The luminous character to the typhlosion's flame left a tracer as she charged ahead, bringing the blazing Blue Comet to life. Magmar ran out to meet her with a sizzling _fire punch_. On two legs, he had the positional advantage and struck first. The _punch_ landed against the side of Sonya's head, forcing her to a dead stop in front of him. Combined with a _hot body_ ability, it packed more heat than a seasoned boxer. Sonya closed her eyes and cracked her neck. The energy of the _fire punch_ spread down her coat, stimulating the oil glands underneath in a glistening ripple from nose to tail. She continued to roll her head up into a _howl_ that pointed her voice at the ceiling. It quickly filled the entire dungeon.

Magmar tripped over his tail trying to distance himself from it. He touched his face, looking at the sweat collecting there. It wasn't from his _hot body_ , but Sonya's _flash fire._ And now it was enhanced three fold. An explosion erupted from the typhlosion's back. Torch turned to cowl as flames burned up from her arms, at the back of her neck, and along the line of her back. It was the best rendition of a sandslash on fire if John had ever saw one. A spray of fireballs erupted from the _lava plume_. They rebounded off of the walls and ceiling, scattering on contact and splitting into smaller pieces that filled every crack in the stone. What didn't pelt Magmar into the ground consumed the air around him, leaving him suffocating and burning all at the same time. Lieutenant Vaughn threw himself behind a suit of armor. The metal blackened to the color of old iron in the downpour worthy of a New Year's Celebration.

John's eyes lit up as brightly as the hallway. He couldn't look at the center of the _plume_ without risking his sight, but the rest of the corridor glowed with the ripple effect of being underwater in a lighted pool at night. It mesmerized. It pulverized. It was almost too beautiful to end. But it did, and the darkness pooled in faster and harder than before, blinding John in a different way. He attempted to blink away the lights dazzling his eyes, but it wasn't fast enough to catch the Lieutenant's next play.

"Heads up!" Vaughn shouted.

He threw John's pokebelt high into the air. Instinct lifted John's head. Reflex spurred him into action. He leapt out of the safety of Sonya's back to catch it.

" _Flame burst_!" Lieutenant Vaughn yelled.

Still on the floor, Magmar looked to his new victim and spat out the attack. A blue _flamethrower_ intercepted it, setting off the explosion prematurely. Both flame types countered one another, localizing the implosion but accelerating the concussion. John flew off of his feet and the blast ripped the pokebelt out his hands. Both soared through the wooden doors of the gallery and into the showroom. John landed on his back and rolled to a stop facing the inside of the room. His pokebelt clattered to the floor farther on and slid to a stop underneath a steel toed black boot. The unfortunate pokeball underneath suddenly seemed as fragile as blown glass. John held his breath. One heavy lean of that boot and it would pop. Onyx cocked her head down at the pokeball like one thinking about squishing a passing bug. She leaned a little harder against it.

"You're a long way from the Cage, _Pharaoh_ ," she informed, her words slow and purposeful, alluding to what his appearance at this moment now meant for the both of them.

John didn't move more than his eyes as he looked up at the glasses flashing at him. There was no telling whether Onyx approved of his costume or not by the way her persistent air of disinterest muted any other expression. The Royal Jewel then looked beyond him, through the door at the battle he had been blasted from.

Sonya caught only a glimpse of the black clad human before Lieutenant Vaughn released two Crobat to assist his recovering magmar. They engaged her immediately, forcing her attention away from the gallery and onto them. Lieutenant Vaughn shifted backwards, pulling her farther and farther away. Sonya recognized what he was trying to do but couldn't risk turning her back and exposing them both to his devilry. She could only take him out as quickly as possible. Vaughn smirked lightly before rushing down the corridor and out of sight with the typhlosion in tow. Sonya glanced back with a growl. Until she could return, John would have to fend for himself.

Human to human.

Or that's what she was led to believe.

As Sonya and Vaughn disappeared from sight, a charmeleon walked up beside Onyx. The tip of his flaming tail cast a dark flicker along the Jewel's black coat as he looked at the door and then the unexpected guest in front of them. John slowly rose to his feet. He didn't want to break eye contact with the flame pokemon, but its trainer was just as deadly as he. Maybe even more so. Onyx caught John's gaze. He couldn't see through the glare of her glasses. _Technically_ , the B.A. had become Cage Champion, and, _technically_ , Onyx said she would let him go, but then again, she said nothing about letting him live.

"How does that saying go again?" Onyx asked without addressing anyone but her own expectations. With a stroke of her finger, she minimized the charmeleon's pokeball. "If you want something done." She snapped the ball into place. "Do it yourself."

The Black Jewel leaned forward and crushed the pokeball underneath her boot. John sucked back a gasp, but to their surprise, nothing happened. No sparks, energy flares, or bursts, just a pop of plastic, ceramic, and metal.

The pokeball was empty.

John shakily exhaled a ragged sigh of relief. He couldn't have been more thankful that Lularoo wasn't in her ball. Less amused, Onyx shrugged off the disappointment and kicked the worthless trash of a pokebelt away from her. It skipped across the ground at an awkward angle, causing one of the pokeballs to separate. It rolled across the floor and came to a stop halfway between the Jewel and John, enlarging itself with the temptation of a big bright glowing red button. Onyx and John both looked at it in the silence that followed.

There was just enough distance between John and the ball to tempt the unthinkable:

Fighting back.


	40. Heart of a Champion: 6

**Heart of a Champion: 6**

John looked between the pokeball and Onyx. The odds of him going down without a fight suddenly vanished in a single roll of the dice. Onyx shifted slightly, amused by the sudden tease of fate. Vulcan clenched and unclenched his claws. They could probably shred through human skin, John's skin, faster than a chainsaw should he dare to entertain the thought of resistance. John took a slow steady inhale without breaking his gaze.

Life Lesson#54.

He owed it to Lopo.

John dashed for the pokeball with every ounce of strength and speed he had earned racing over mountains as a child and as a student of the Cork City Dojo. Not to be outdone, Vulcan spat a growl and ran out to meet him. From both sides, they closed in on the ball within seconds. A _fire fang_ blazed within the charmeleon's jaws. John reached for the ball and stumbled. He fell, snatching up the ball in a stunt worthy roll that propelled him into a flip over Vulcan. It was some of the best grace his clumsiness had ever produced. Even the dojo would have been proud had the trainer not fumbled with the landing and crashed into the bottom of the nearest artifact pedestal. John sat up against the case, wincing with one hand rubbing the back of his head and the other clutching the pokeball in his lap.

Vulcan snarled out a _flamethrower_. John jumped lightly in surprise and rolled away from the display. Flames engulfed the spot within seconds, and no sooner had the trainer spun to his feet did two ivory claws send him reeling again. John roughly bumped into another display, dislodging the glass cover while narrowly missing a second _slash_ that threatened to crack open his chest. Vulcan spun low and his tail caught both ankles, sweeping the trainer off of his feet. John fell into another display. This time, both crashed to the ground. The glass case shattered against the stone, collapsing around a gold foiled book that tumbled out of the wreckage.

"Spare the flames!" Onyx suddenly ordered.

A case she could replace. The relic within, not so much. Unfortunately, the order also spared John's life a moment too long. He found the release to his pokeball and punched it. Saul materialized in the gallery less than pleased that he should find himself on cold stone instead of a warm blanket, especially when that stone set him on the bad end of a charmeleon's tantrum. Vulcan turned to face the new arrival with a brief passing roar of his flaming tail. The snake matched it with a rattle. Both pokemon realigned into more suitable battling positions, eyes focused only on each other. True pokemon battles didn't require _human_ intervention.

In fact, it was often a nuisance.

Vulcan charged, claws and jaws open in a salivating lather for blood. His tail whipped out behind him in a prehistoric advance that would leave most squalling and squealing in terror. Too bad his prey was also a predator. Saul scrunched into a coil, sprang forward, and met the charge head on. Vulcan jerked backwards just beyond the edge of a _poison fang_ as it stretched to full length. He smelt the venom on the snake's breath as the twin _fangs_ stopped mere centimeters from his face. The trigger snap and return, elastically pulled Saul back into his coil empty handed but Vulcan's tail aimed to fill the void. It lashed out across the yellow banded scales, falling short in length but not in heat. Saul flinched away from the flame as it grazed his neck.

Vulcan closed the distance between them. He cut a _slash_ across the purple coils at the same time Saul sprang in another _poison fang_. It landed deep into the charmeleon's shoulder. But unlike the last bite, this one didn't pull away. Utilizing his trainer's unruly methods, the ekans kept his hold and threw the rest of his body into a _wrap_ around the lizard. Together, they fell to the floor in a primordial struggle of dominance. And this time, Saul didn't plan on losing the fight. In a similar mindset, John scrambled to his feet and ran for the pokebelt kicked across the gallery. Onyx drew her baton with a snap and walked after him. Her boots crunched and kicked against the broken glass as she bypassed the heated pokemon battle nearby.

If her pokemon couldn't take care of itself, it wasn't worth saving.

And Vulcan struggled with that reality. He tried to push away the constrictor but the snake already had a hold of him. Each scratch did little more than break a few scales against the muscles that rivaled steel. Saul squeezed in another _wrap_ , pinning the charmeleon's arms to his body. The living noose shifted up and around Vulcan's neck. There was only room for one last breath before it tightened. He used it for a _flamethrower_. Saul released his _wrap_ in a hiss, writhing away in several body rolls to put out the flames. Vulcan gasped back to life and quickly staggered to his feet.

On the other side of the room, John couldn't move any faster without tripping. He saw his belt come into view beyond a display. Just a few more steps and he'd have it. Onyx refused to let that happen. Cutting him off around a pedestal, she cracked her baton across the shin of John's next step. He fell heavily onto his chin, the length of his body compensating for the broken steps. The belt was still within reach! He threw out a hand and another swing of the baton smashed it to the floor. John pressed his forehead against the stone in a yelp and arched his back to make room for his wounded arm. The action lifted his chest just high enough for Onyx's foot to come underneath it. She kicked him into another display, shaking the _Silver Wing_ perched atop.

Such dangerous rattling caught Saul's attention. He looked away from his peeling skin towards the humans. His vision of John was blocked by Onyx as she stepped up to the trainer, baton at the ready. He slapped his rattle with a hiss and slithered for her. Steel fitted the Jewel's black boots but only at the tips. He'd rip out her Achilles tendon in one bite. But before Saul could slide into striking distance, something grabbed the end of his tail and jerked him to a stop. Vulcan knew better than to give pause and allow the snake a chance to strike. He swung Saul out to full extension, slapping the snake's mid-section against another display. The entire column broke apart like a tower of building blocks and smashed to the floor.

Onyx collapsed her baton, snapped it on her belt, and glared sharply over her shoulder.

"Break one more case and I'll dip that tail in glue," she threatened.

Vulcan quickly threw away the snake. Saul dropped to the floor and slinked away as fast as he could. The good thing about being mostly muscle meant that there was very little bone to break. Satisfied that the rest of her collection would remain intact, Onyx pulled out her Berretta and looked back down at the sad excuse of a Blood Ace at her feet. John shifted to sit up against the base of the _Silver Wing_ display. He cradled his arm and looked up into the shadow of the Jewel. The barrel of her gun simultaneously came between his eyes. Saul couldn't have asked for a clearer target. He hurriedly slid around to the pair and threw his whole body into the strike. It might have struck had Onyx not foreseen the vengeance in his eyes, bent her arm up out of the snake's reach, and stepped back. It was a casual shift of weight for a veteran of battle. Saul missed and coiled up and around John's lap in a backwards slither. Onyx scoffed.

"Really?" she asked. Saul kept his head steady despite his ever coiling and uncoiling rolls around John's legs and spat at her. The Black Jewel laughed. "Of course, you'd choose _him_. He's even more pathetic than you are, and you were a disappointment from the beginning."

Saul rattled his tail. It quieted against the sudden and soft touch against his scales. He glanced behind him. John managed to hide his wince with a pained smile. An ekans boiling in his lap didn't help his bruised body, but it did lighten his heart.

"Don't listen to her," he whispered. "She's just jealous that she wasn't good enough for you."

Saul stared into that annoyingly persistent smile. The statement so absurd that it removed his thoughts completely from the battle before them.

Onyx, jealous? He flicked his tongue in her direction. What could a pair like _them_ have that the ultimate treasure hunter didn't already possess? She was a _Royal Jewel._ Although Saul knew himself to dazzle brighter than the whole Collection, there was nothing about John worth a smidgen of value to any collector. Onyx looked down at the snake and frowned. She actually frowned.

Oh yeah, she was pissed.

John was right. They did have something that she didn't. Maybe the bandaged trainer was useful after all, or maybe Saul's presence was just that awe inspiring that John couldn't help but be affected by it? The ekans lifted his chin like a gentleman holding the fold of a gold buttoned jacket. He adjusted his crown with a flick of his tongue. That's right. John wasn't worthless. He couldn't be, not when he tended to the needs of the finest bred ekans the Underground had to offer, an ekans who was tired of playing coy. Saul narrowed his eyes at Onyx in a sinister like grin, the flick of his tongue more vindictive than the venom in his bite.

It was time to show the illustrious Black Jewel exactly what it was that she could never covet despite her best attempts:

His glorious evolution.

White light suddenly engulfed Saul's body. Vulcan curled his lip in a snarl and stepped forward. An attack of a high enough caliber on an evolving pokemon could deal enough damage to thwart the metamorphosis process entirely. It might even leave the pokemon as nothing more than a crippled cut-rate malformed degenerate if they were lucky.

"Don't," Onyx quickly ordered without looking away or weakening her frown. "I want to see this."

The bitterness of her words contradicted the light glowing in her eyes as much as her glasses. Vulcan hissed through his teeth but obeyed and returned to his trainer's side with a curl of his claws in preparation of the fight to come. A freshly evolved pokemon was more dangerous than its original experienced state, or at least, for the first few minutes after the transformation. Bristling with fresh hot energy, the newly evolved pokemon experienced no unease, discomfort, or clumsiness of its new body. Its power heightened to levels unachievable on its own, making even a pathetic excuse of a pokemon a royal pain in the ass. But then again, looking at the ekans' partnered trainer as bloody and bandaged as he was, even an evolution wouldn't compensate for a lifetime of poor breeding. Pharaoh, was a sad excuse of a trainer, even more so a Blood Ace. His survival could only be explained by the devil's luck.

He also had the devil's pokemon.

Saul's body grew thicker and longer, pushing John against the display case behind him. The trainer could do little more than endure the searing energy expanding on top of him. Glowing white coils spilled out onto the floor as Saul raised his head. His neck flattened to create a cowl that fanned out almost as impressively as a raptor's wings. At the climax, the materialization broke in a flash of light and energy. John closed his eyes against the blinding flash of light but it still wasn't enough to protect his vision. Blinded, he couldn't see beyond the stars in his eyes. Saul didn't care because the show wasn't for him.

Onyx sucked back a small gasp. Her chest lifted in a tightening of more than just her chest.

Polished with fresh energy, Saul, the arbok, lifted his head out of the heavy sea of energy buzzing around him. His great hood stretched flat, casting a shadow across the gallery like a storm darkening the horizon line. His low rolling hiss was deep enough to replace his lost rattle and the sleek wet flick of his forked tongue was just as powerful as the muscles smoothly pulling his body across the floor. Colored to live in a treasure chest, the arbok showcased his mosaic hood in full unbridled glory. Fire orange, ruby red, and ink black colored his scales so vibrantly that only the divine and holy could capture its equal in stained glass. Ironically enough, the image resembled a sharply demonic expression that laughed at the weak and feeble within view.

Onyx took a long hard look over the cobra rising before her, coming to stand taller than even his trainer. A rare moment of satisfaction slashed across the blackness of her eyes.

"You really were worth the money," she exclaimed. "Shame."

Onyx raised her Beretta 92fs and fired three rounds into Saul's throat. He jarred with each hit, throwing back his body and head in recoil. Smoke and gunpowder blessed the Black Jewel's hand, wafting over it like incense on a sacrificial altar. Silence filled the room. The echo of the three gunshots deafening the heartbeats in their ears. Saul was still for a moment until his head slowly came down from its backward tilt. He went still again, dropping three half flattened bullets to the floor. They _tinked_ sharply against the stone and broken glass.

The bottom of the arbok's scaly trunk pushed them aside as several weighted lengths of coil dropped out of John's lap. The trainer underneath grunted relief while hanging onto the side of the display case. Without the pressure of the giant cobra on top of him and the stars clearing, he could finally appreciate Saul's evolution and all that came with it. The arbok's scales shimmered in a glossy iridescent flicker. A _protect_ , one temporarily intensified with the power of an evolutionary cloak.

And still in effect.

"Fuck," Onyx cursed as she fired another three rounds.

They pinged off the cobra's scales easier than the first set now that he was in motion. Saul snarled in a stretch of his fangs and slung the bottom half of his body around faster than a whip. Vulcan ducked. Onyx was too tall to do the same. She barely raised a defense before the tail hit. Her arms flattened against her body, something snapped, and she flew across the gallery into the skeleton on display. Old and new bone alike crashed together in a wave of wreckage. Vulcan watched it spread and exposed his neck to a _poison fang_. Saul sunk down into it, now big enough to lift the lizard, shake him twice, and fling him across the opposite side of the room.

More displays buckled, toppled, and broke, destroying the relics within. The clamor acted better than smelling salts for the Black Jewel. Onyx lifted her head from the floor. Strands of hair had fallen from her braid. Her glasses hung halfway from her face. One eye remained tightly closed in a bloody squint. The other quickly refocused on the gun lying on the floor in front of her. She sucked back a grimace, slapped a hand on the weapon, and pushed herself out of the pile of bones. Bits and pieces of history dropped from her back and shoulders as she did. One arm hung limply at her right side. She could have clutched the two breaks with the other, but then she wouldn't have had a free hand to pop out the empty magazine and slap in another from her hip.

Onyx threw up her good arm, gun in hand. Saul turned to face her and flicked his tongue in the traces of a grin. There was nothing to worry about. The trigger had snapped clean off. Six curses instead of bullets broke across his scales. Onyx threw away the useless tool and ripped off another from her belt more suitable to the task. The energy stream hooked down into the fangs of a seviper and the first thing Shiva looked at wasn't the cobra, but the trainer forgotten on the floor. Saul hissed his displeasure at her focus and coiled back up onto John's lap. This time, only a small portion of his coils managed to fit, but they still trapped the trainer underneath.

Shiva, the seviper, slithered closer, sliding out in front of the pair from behind a broken display. Saul flattened his hood into a concave shield and thrust out his jaws in a show of fangs. The viper didn't hesitate. Instead, she settled in the light of the shattered cases. The smoothness of her scales rivaled that of the surrounding glass, and in the light of the broken displays, the gloss only seemed to add to the depth of her color. They did not cast a glare or lose shape in a shiny flash, but flickered in a mosaic made of diamonds. The light darkened her body, dipping it in black and making it look like a mineral glittering in the feint light of a cave. Shiva beckoned the cobra closer with an _attract_ at the end of her forked tongue.

It was seduction on a cosmic level.

Too bad Saul was too prideful to fall for anyone other than his own reflection. That, and he didn't care for lust now that he had found love, despite how clumsy, foolhardy, and innocent it was squirming underneath him. Saul flicked a humored tongue at the thought before he spat a _venom drench_ in the viper's face. Shiva reeled back in a cry and lashed out her kunai shaped tail in reflex. It cut through three display cases in a miss over Saul and John's heads, showering them in glass and antiquity.

The seviper recoiled, trying to shake off the venom in her eyes and nostrils. Never before had she been so utterly rejected. Not a flinch of doubt or stutter of hesitation. Now, she might not ever be able to flaunt her charm again. Shiva cried out in a throaty spit. It matched the scream of flames suddenly careening across the room. Saul turned his head to the beginnings of a _flamethrower_ slightly different in color and texture than the ones that came before. He quickly lapped his coils over John, laying on top of the trainer with his hood as a lid to the pot he had instantly created. Flames doused his scales. Another _protect_ kept the heat outside and away from John tightly wrapped within, but as soon as the torrent ended, Shiva lashed a _punishment_ against the cobra's hooded back with her tail. It broke through the shield in a shatter of crystalline energy. Saul refused to lift his head in a wince and expose the precious cargo within, even as a second strike lashed from the opposite way, creating a deep and bloody "X" in his hood.

The evolutionary charge was weakening.

Saul lifted his head and whirled around, loosening his protective encasement around John. A third _punishment_ swung for his head. He snapped onto it from the side, cutting the insides of his cheek to stop it. The gentle hand that touched his skin in surprise was worth it. Saul launched for Shiva with her tail still in his mouth. He couldn't afford to let it go and give her a chance at another swing. She'd hack into him better than weak firewood. But the gamble was bad. Shiva sprang out to meet him with a _venoshock_. It dug into the trunk of Saul's body, piercing scale and muscle. He suffocated a cry of pain with a _poison fang_ of his own. The two snakes entangled themselves, struggling to spiral around into the advantage. Their heavy bodies pushed and twisted, switching leads with every strike. They shifted towards a far wall, pounding the floor in weighted slaps of flesh.

"Saul!" John gasped, now that he was free of the cobra's weight once more. He limped out of the wreckage. Bits of glass and manuscript confetti dropped from his frayed bandages. Some remained, stuck to the drying blood. Neither viper nor cobra responded to the call. They barreled into a suit of armor and the sharp clatter broke them apart. Saul stayed low to the ground. Streaks of blood cried from the cuts and gashes across his scales. The "X" on the back of his hood smeared an oozing cloak down his neck. Shiva remained perfectly coiled despite the raw spots of missing scales and punctures. She even taunted the cobra with a spitting hiss, pulling herself higher every moment the fight dragged on. Her endurance was every bit as powerful as her venom.

"Saul!" John called again.

The arbok's body wasn't moving like it was supposed to. He was either poisoned or starting to feel the effects of his new form. His exhaustion only accelerated the process. He needed help. He needed a trainer. John hobbled forward to join the fight but quickly stopped not a pace in. Something on the floor caught his attention. It was the _Silver Wing_. Laying amidst the collector's carnage, it looked to be in good condition. After all, it was one of the few things still in one piece. Restoration methods had even enhanced its color and shine. John didn't notice it earlier against the glittering glass debris and broken relics.

It quietly lay there on the floor as if it had just fallen from its nest of origin. The tip curled upward as if to look at him. Its rainbow colored partner lay beside it. Their edges touched with the softness of a child's hand on a grandparent's coattail. For some reason, despite their appearances, John couldn't tell which was older or younger.

He also couldn't tell who struck the next blow as another surge of battle clattered across the gallery. The snakes were back at it in full force, but it wasn't the conflict that sucked up John's attention faster than his gasp. It was the appearance of another pokemon. A second charmeleon revealed his identity from out of the shadows. Darker in both color and personality, Kiev, was Vulcan's battling partner, brother, and replacement should the lighter colored charmeleon ever fail his duties. Onyx had trained them as a pair. Raising a pokemon with the ever constant reminder of replacement had its perks, especially when said pokemon suddenly died on the battlefield with a broken neck.

Kiev shoved a cracked display case out of his way with both eyes and all teeth aimed at Saul's back. The cobra couldn't see him behind his own hood. John glanced at his pokebelt to his left, then the two feathers on the right, and finally at Saul in front of him, all three in direct line of an attack already smoldering between Kiev's lips. Flickers of a _flamethrower_ dropped to the ground. John had a choice and there was no time to think about it. He forced a withdrawal on Saul, lunged for his pokebelt, and hunched away from the jet of flames as it streaked behind him. Heat billowed at his back, tossing up the two feathers in a furious wave of energy. John winked an eye against the light, widening his gaze when he realized that his decision had its consequences.

The _Silver Wing_ swung upwards into the inferno. Crawling red embers ate at its edges a split second before a full flame consumed the feather in its entirety. Without one last moonlit flash or sparkle, the feather disappeared in an incinerating crackle. Nothing but a small wink of ash was left as the _flamethrower_ raged ahead. John slowly stood up, unafraid to face the torrent now that he was faced with this new reality.

The _Silver Wing_ was destroyed.

Along with any chance he had of getting home.

John stood there, unable to move and unable to speak. He knew his chances were slim, that returning to his proper place and time was a long shot. Now, it was an impossibility. He would never see his family, friends, or home ever again. Including Lularoo.

As if to comfort the trainer of his sudden loss, the _Rainbow Wing_ , also tossed up in the passing of the _flamethrower_ , slowly fluttered down from the air. It landed on John's shoulder, catching the microfibers of his bandages to stay in place. Surprised, the trainer turned a cheek to it and the tip of the feather brushed against his cheek. It left a streak of flame in its wake better than the strike of a match. John didn't even have a chance to flinch before the entire feather spontaneously caught on fire. It burned out just as quickly in a spurt of multicolored fire, leaving a flame burning on John's shoulder. He quickly tried to slap it out but the flames only transferred onto the palm of his hand. They spread to his finger tips and wrist while the ones left on his shoulder crawled down his arm and up onto his neck.

John panicked, sharply waving his arm but no matter how hard he swiped, pressed, or patted, the flames only continued to transfer and spread along whatever they touched. Red at the base, they burned into white flares that flickered into various shades of purple, magenta, and green when they became long enough. John looked at his shaking hands and arms, both lathered in flames. Or at least, what he thought were flames. The energy looked and moved like fire but his skin didn't shrivel and burn. The pain was deeper, as if the fire incinerated his cells one by one, turning to ash from the inside out.

"What is this!?" John cried, biting back the terror as the inferno crawled onto his face. He tried to paw the flames away but only managed to swipe them further and further across his cheek until they masked him completely. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the rest of his body was submerged in flame. Onyx came up beside her seviper and slowly pulled off her broken glasses. Both mesmerized by the sight. These flames were unlike anything they had ever seen.

They were the flames of myth. They were the curse of a mortal wielding divine power, the result of a human thinking it could harness the power of a legendary pokemon, the punishment for a human trying to take wing.

It wasn't John's body that burned

but his soul.

The inferno suddenly ended when it reached completion, winking out in one last ripple of air that tossed John's hair and shendyt better than a blown out candle. There wasn't but a dusting of soot across his bandages as if nothing had ever happened. Sweat even went so far as to dot his skin. All light and color vanished, dulling the eye with morbid gray stone, shattered glass, and broken relics. John dropped to his knees. He sagged lightly, catching himself on the verge of unconsciousness. Chin and chest could barely leave one another as the room swarmed with fuzzy images. John's heavy labored breathing painted the picture of his exhaustion.

It made no sense. Everything was backwards. His skin was clammy with sweat. Not a burn warped his skin or curled his hair and yet it felt as if the flames had burned out everything inside of him, drained him of every ounce of energy he had. John shakily raised a hand. He looked at his trembling fingers, expecting to find searing hot flesh disintegrating faster than alcohol in the heat. There was none. Only stained bandages crusting with the same forgetfulness of a nosebleed incurred while sparring on the mat. Exhausted but purged of everything built up inside, John felt like he just spent a day of hell on the mountain.

He felt weak but satisfied.

"What-the . . . hell?" he panted.

Onyx took a slow step forward as if to seek out the last traces of heat from the bonfire she wished was still burning. Everything she had researched was true. Of course John was confused, he was looking to the wrong devil for an explanation. The owner of _those_ flames didn't come from below, but above.

"You've been marked," she explained in enough fascination to make the statement a near whisper. "Do you know what this means?"

John flicked his eyes up at her.

According to legend, he was going to die. And according to every pain receptor in his body, he was already in the process of doing so.

Onyx quickly curbed her enthusiasm now that the trainer was watching her and still very much alive. "Ho-oh will come to kill you," she flatly stated. Several wisps of hair framed her face. They highlighted her dark green eyes which were even more dangerous now that there was no glass to barricade the hunger behind them. "He will collect what is his."

Judging from the intensity of the Royal Jewel's gaze, she was considering collecting John herself, if only for the bigger prize at the end.

"Accept this," she said, "and I can give the rest of your short life a purpose."

John leaned a little lower. The colors of his eyes blurred with darkness. He struggled to stay awake as his body continued to burn without any flames. "My-life," he panted in shallow huffs. "Has-plenty of . . . purpose."

"That's quite the statement from someone who doesn't exist," Onyx exclaimed as she reexamined her broken glasses, found them beyond repair, and tossed them to the side. Her eyes didn't lose a trace of their focus or clarity. "I looked into you, _Pharaoh_. There's no record of you whatsoever in any database: standard, digital, classified, domestic, or international. Not a huff of recognition or snicker of gossip. No reputation whatsoever beyond these walls, not even of your pokemon. And the only people capable of that are the ones that've hit rock bottom and lost everything. Even their identity."

Her eyes pierced like the briars on the mountain, catching skin at the slightest graze and growing fruit from the nutritious blood dropped at its roots.

"You can try to run. I won't stop you, but where will you go? You have nothing. You are nothing outside of the call sign given to you. This," she added with a motion not just to her lair but the world of Cage fights, blood money, Royal Jewel's, and sin. " _This_ is where you belong. Who will you be if not, Pharaoh?"

John kept his gaze on the floor. Beaten, bloody, and burned to his very soul, he could not stop the words from snaking into his heart worse than the venom of both their snakes combined. Everything Onyx said was true. Undeniably, unforgivably, true. John wasn't just a cast away or a throwback to the Cage's moral League origins. He was a time traveler stranded in an era too precious to endanger with his existence. A sharp burning pain suddenly bloomed in John's chest. He silently clutched it, dropping his head and clenching his teeth against the fiery needles pricking every atom in his body. He shakily released it only when the pressure of his hand touched something deeper than the pain. He felt his hand on his chest and the warm pressure of a Hariyama's _force palm_ reminding him exactly what it was that gave him strength

That gave him purpose.

John opened his eyes, pinching one shut to look up at the Black Jewel in front of him. He endured her torture before. Now, was no different, except the fact that Onyx was trying to convince him to stay.

"I thought you wanted me dead," John huffed.

Onyx glanced beyond him to another showcase in the room. This one was far enough away to escape the damage. It displayed a single object: a pokeball as old as pokemon themselves. Maybe the very first ever created. Elegant fingers of intertwining filigree created a singular ring like clamp around the two halves of the ball. There would be no rumbles of protest against such masterful sealing. No cracks to escape from. The sphere of elegance and domination had been forged to contain the very primal energy that fueled the natural universe. It had been forged to capture even the most legendary of pokemon.

It was a master ball.

And Onyx now looked upon it with just as much purpose as its original creators. Its suspected power proven real after the burning of the _Rainbow Wing_.

"You've tasted forbidden fruit," the Royal Jewel exclaimed. "I have no need to kill you. Your death is assured. Ho-oh will come to claim its mark. It's not a matter of 'if', but 'when'." Her pokemon hoped sooner rather than later. They were even willing to take up the job themselves. Shiva hissed lightly, eager to speed up the timeline and seduce John into striking distance. Kiev was willing to go out and meet him. Onyx kept them both in line as she took a step forward. "I'm the only one who understands the true nature of those feathers. I am the one that can give you the answers as to why it feels like your brains are bubbling in your skull."

John glared but found no excuse to refute her. He remembered the first time he saw the Sil _ver Wing_ , saw the astonishment written in the Wicket's faces. These _wings_ were something not even they, the humans capable of birthing a Ranger, could understand. Just how did Aria come across one? How did it connect to the ruins and Celebi? As owner, curator, and seller of the Black Market, Onyx probably knew enough to change history. Maybe she could provide him with answers to all of his questions regarding Rangers and Legends. Maybe she could even provide relief from this strange force burning inside of him.

Maybe, she would believe in time travel.

John closed his eyes. His breathing, although still labored, quieted as he slowly and shakily attempted to stand.

Onyx had everything. She could give him anything, if only temporarily until this mark was claimed. Being part of her collection now was no different than all his time with her before. In fact, now he was actually worth something.

Then again, she did call Charles a ragdoll.

"You can treat me like a slave," John slowly began, "threaten me and try to kill me." He swayed to a standstill. "But I refuse to let you do any more harm to my pokemon, or any pokemon legendary or not."

"I created you," Onyx firmly reminded.

John casually regained his breath. "When Ho-oh comes," he sighed. "I'm going to make sure I'm as far away from you as possible."

Onyx's face suddenly tightened in a snarl that crinkled her nose.

"You owe me!" she shrieked. "I saved your life!"

John settled into his hunch and smiled.

"Sorry," he exclaimed with an arm around his ribs. "But that honor goes to someone else."

Onyx screamed and Kiev spat out a wash of plasma like saliva. It burst into flame, exploding into a cloud of heat and light that raced forward faster than a pyroclastic flow. John didn't run. He couldn't anyway, not with his injured leg. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a slow meditative breath. He exhaled, and it grew stronger, manifesting itself into the sigh of a volcano. Blue flames hurled past him, tossing up his hair in a tumult of blue flames. They connected with the fiery wash barreling towards him. Pressure and superheated air directed the resulting explosion upward. Thick oily smoke replaced the pyrotechnics of the exchange, and for a moment, it blacked out the lights of the ceiling. An eerie black shadow fell across the gallery. The light of the fires still burning on the other side of the cloud cast a heavy burnt orange light onto those below. It grew darker with every passing second like a dying fire in the dead of night.

The burning back of the typhlosion that suddenly streaked into the gallery, however, stood out better than a comet cutting across the dust clouds of a universe in turmoil. Having finally chased Lieutenant Vaughn into a hole, Sonya slid to a stop between Onyx and John. Broken glass twinkled at her paws in the light of her blue torch, casting an ethereal glow to the floor around them. Fire above, ice below, and darkness in between, the visual spectacle was a marvel as much as the circumstances creating them.

The strange storm of cloud, color, and shadow quickly dissipated, giving way to the regular gray light of the underground. Sonya's roar also scared it away. She dropped down in a war worthy _flamethrower_ that lit a barrier between the two trainers. Shiva coiled back in a hiss. Kiev bit back a flinch and Onyx defended her face against the sudden burst.

The burning wall crackled lower, exposing John's intentions as he winced his way onto the typhlosion's back. Sonya had smothered her flame accordingly to make room for him but concern still sharpened her steel grey eyes. The trainer neither responded nor addressed the sizzling oil covering her freshly heated skin. He even pressed against her into riding position as if her coat cooled the fever in his blood. Motherly instinct set Sonya's heart a flutter. She could tell that something was amiss. She couldn't see John upon her back to know what it was but she could feel it. She could feel him burning on her back hotter than her blue torch. He no longer needed protecting. He needed her to save his life from whatever it was that ailed him.

Sonya sucked in a chest full of determination, curled up her lips, and hurled another torrent of flames without the aid of her back. They were thinner, wispy even, like the traces of her celestial reputation. This time, prepared for the onslaught, Kiev came out to meet the flames with his own. They burned in wicked flashes, washing out the enemy's to leave behind a hot wind filled with ashes. Onyx and Shiva ducked in opposite directions as the Blue Comet charged between them. With John on her back, Sonya plowed between them for the gallery exit. Viper and Jewel both whirled around in matching hisses to face another blue stream of flames suddenly aimed at them. Kiev hastily countered. Coughing and choking in the haste of the attack, he barely managed to push the energy aside in enough time to save his party from incineration.

Onyx didn't bother waiting for him to catch up. She swiped away the hellish backwash of the two fire types and jerked to a stop before the gallery doors. The tails of her black coat flared at the stop. Her collection lay broken and singed all around her. Eons of culture, art, and history, destroyed by the single sigh of a simpleton. Onyx kept her eyes on the doors. She could give chase, but why waste the effort? Her web was already set. No one escaped her clutches alive.

It was now only a matter of time until she had Pharaoh's life and his houndoom squealing in her grasp.


	41. Marked for Death: 1

**Marked for Death: 1**

Dying sure was exhausting.

For the life of him, or whatever life was left, John couldn't keep his eyes open. Which, in and of itself, was a cause for concern. His heart should be pounding all rhyme and reason out of his ears, not slowing faster than a slowpoke's lullaby. It was as if his body could no longer keep up with him. All of the drugs and steroids that had been pumped into him had finally hit his liver and kidneys, choking them out better than sand in a car engine. Sensei's warnings of overtaxing his long and lanky body had finally come to fruition. John felt weak. He felt cold. Fear no longer heightened his senses. Adrenaline no longer coursed through his veins. He was simply, and utterly, tired

of everything.

Without adrenaline to cement the trainer's grip on the typhlosion, he fell forward in the next turn and Sonya's oily fur slipped right between his fingers. John crashed to the ground in a tumble of limp reflexes. He blinked a few times as if caught dozing off. The only reason he opened his eyes at all was because the fall jarred his senses with the delight of jumping out of a moving train.

Pain. It seemed to be the only thing consistent in his life as of late.

John rolled onto his side, more so because Sonya's nose insisted that he do so rather than any desire to get comfortable. That notion had long since left him. The typhlosion pushed and shoved her way deeper under his arms, urging him back onto her shoulders. It was an effort, but John obliged albeit rather slowly. Slow enough for Sonya to spare a glance over her shoulder at him. Motherly instinct glittered in her silver eye again, or maybe it was something else, the reflection of something perhaps, but whatever it was, paled against the sudden resurgence of several loud alarm systems. Red light strobed along the ceiling and walls. Whatever had begun at the Cage House had finally seeped into the deeper parts of the complex. Getting stuck in an enemy's pincer with nothing but dirt above and dirt below felt too much like the makings of a grave for Sonya.

If needed, she'd claw their way out.

Not even the earth could contain a volcano.

But right now, keeping a passenger in place was more of a chore than any sort of primal throw of survival. Move too quick or too fast and John was likely to lose his grip again. Nothing in his posture fought her when they took off down the corridor once more, which made for the perfect rider, except when that rider's lanky limbs threatened to slide right out of place. Another tumble like before and Sonya couldn't guarantee that John wouldn't snap the wrong way. Slowing the pace but losing none of the haste tested even the typhlosion's meticulous methods of traction. They couldn't afford a single slip up.

Every blunder and stumble gave Onyx a chance to catch up to them, and that was something Sonya couldn't risk. Not when the baby on her back might start a fire with a sniffle. She didn't know how, but the trainer reeked of energies, too many for her to properly understand in the heat of the moment.

Luckily, John managed to keep his grip. Losing cognitive focus somehow triggered an inert physical reorientation in him. It kept his body aboard even when they ascended steep and lengthy staircases and swung around curves more dangerous than a giga coaster. Sonya only wished Liam could exhibit the same maneuverable aptitude when she had to carry him home after an eventful night of liberal socializing. John wasn't nearly as restrictive, clingy, or weepy when functioning at the same debilitated mental capacity as a celebrity ace. He also wasn't guiding their path anymore, and the fury to which they flew down the corridors didn't leave much room for memory.

Luckily, Sonya had her nose to guide her. And even luckier, Liam was working up a sweat. In fact, the aromatic lure manifest itself sooner than expected. Sonya hadn't yet reached its source before part of the wall ahead of them suddenly exploded into the corridor. The typhlosion skid to a stop, lifting her head so that John caught himself against it when he fell forward again. Their noggins knocked and it must have jarred some spare sense into the trainer because he sat up with more awareness to his situation than before.

It matched the same recovering expression of the makuhita that waved away the dust of his entrance. He sat in a freshly formed dent in the wall. Having been thrown through the first, he had no desire to remove himself from the second any faster than he had to. John pinched his eyes at the precarious gutsy pokemon perched in the plaster. There was something about him that was oddly familiar.

"Porthos?" he asked.

He wasn't exactly sure why. The stubby and squat pokemon in front of him was a far cry from the delicately destructive Hariyama of the Cork City Dojo. The Porthos John knew couldn't be moved more than a few inches, even by Aria's aggron, Sebastian, during heated battle. But the worrisome nature of the makuhita on the effect his impact had on the architecture rather than his body, couldn't be faked in one timeline or the next. Porthos, the makuhita, shook the plaster from his head, stepped out of the freshly indented wall, and brushed off his arms as if it was another day at the dojo. A machoke stepped through the hole in the wall and into the hallway across from him. A _seismic toss_ swelled within the veins down the pokemon's arms. He was ready to throw that black ascot across city lines and into the next district.

Luckily for Porthos, the young fowl pokemon chasing after the pair still had the finesse of his older, more evolved self. Zoro, the combusken, jumped out of the settling wreckage from behind Machoke unheard and unnoticed. The muscle pokemon was so preoccupied with the enemy in front of him that he didn't even realize the fowl was in pursuit until it bounced off of the back of his head with a _double kick_. He hit the floor hard enough to smash out every ounce of his identity into the linoleum. Sizzling _embers_ bombarded whatever was left behind. Any hope of recovery was permanently lost to anonymity as Porthos pinpointed an _arm thrust_ to the base of the enemy's neck. Machoke lost much more than his dignity between the threefold assault.

Threat nullified, Porthos glanced over at his colorful partner and offered a smug thumbs up. Zoro huffed out a reply and brushed away the leftover cinders from his chest as if adjusting a bow tie. John remained where he was, seated upon Sonya's back. There was no need to dismount so that she could light her flame. The fight was already over.

No wonder John's generation was obsessed with pokemon steroid enhancements. The generation that came before it had birthed monsters.

And that didn't pertain to just the pokemon.

Liam hopped into the corridor from the crudely constructed access point. Half of his sleeve was missing along with the bottom corner of his jacket. Mud and water marks swathed his pants like artists' paint. He turned to his fellow comrade with a smile, tossed his lightly dampened hair, and lifted the riding goggles from his eyes.

"Perfect timing, Johnny," he said.

The Ace then casually maneuvered around the fallen machoke and debris better than a stack of discarded garage sale items. Sonya warmed lightly upon his approach. It was John's cue to dismount. He slid off of the typhlosion's back with the concern that his legs wouldn't hold, but running off with yet another Valenis masterpiece might be just as dangerous as running off with Onyx's mark. The trainer tossed Liam Sonya's pokeball. Back at the hole, Mr. Bentley walked backwards to stand in its frame, nine millimeter in hand and at the ready. Unlike Liam, he was completely soaked to the point of dripping.

"Hate to break up the reunion," he interjected. "But if we don't get out of here now, we might not make it out at all."

"Yeah, yeah, like you haven't told us twenty times already. Stop whining," Marcus barked as he swiped away the rest of the dust and sauntered past his cohort and into the hallway. He wore no shirt whatsoever and fresh cuts garnished his knuckles. Mr. Bentley fired off two shots and swiveled to face the fighter in his finest military fashion.

"They're coming around!" he warned.

Liam glanced back and forth down the hallway as a sizeable patrol of grunts rushed by on both ends.

"Benny, you brought the fireworks, right?" Liam asked as he unclasped two pokeballs from his belt.

"You're lucky I've come to expect the worst when it comes to you and your schemes," Mr. Bentley replied. He quickly tucked away his gun and hopped through the debris past Liam and the Ace's exasperated look of offense.

"I don't scheme," Liam quickly corrected. "I _strategize_."

Mr. Bentley huffed out a less than approving retort and maneuvered towards the dent in the opposite, relatively intact wall across the hallway. He pulled out a pouch from underneath his shirt in a scratch of Velcro. How many hidden stores and stashes he had hidden within his wardrobe, John couldn't tell, but it was enough for Porthos to waddle out of the way of the bodyguard. Mr. Bentley took a knee in front of the dent and arranged several small clay dots of plastic explosives around the weakened wall. His hands worked with rehearsed precision, pinning metal tipped wires between the separate pieces. Alone, they weren't much, but when wired together, they created a big enough blast to make up for any half-brained schemes Liam could concoct.

That was, if the grunts didn't sniff them out first. This underground maze was their home turf, and the more rattata that gathered, the more likely a seviper would follow.

John turned a cautious glance over his hunched shoulder. He didn't remember much of the ride through the compound, or how far they had distanced themselves from Onyx's fortress, but lingering here was a dangerous sport no matter how relieving the reunion. This was the enemy's home base, and John wasn't sure he could hit a home run. After the way his body was beginning to numb, he might just strike out in the second inning.

John glanced back to the others. Liam hovered over Bentley with eyes and ears on a swivel. Sonya reconvened with Porthos and Zoro, hair and feather alike bristling at the smell of approaching grime and grunt. Marcus, on the other hand, didn't care about Benny's new party trick or a black sweatered ambush. He stared at one thing and one thing only:

John.

Such grizzly contemplation jolted the trainer to a stop, although, he wasn't moving much to begin with anyway. John would have blamed such intense analysis on the outfit first, then the blood soaked bandages, but according to the fighter's eyes, it was something else, something reminiscent of an expression Sensei used to wield when he caught John returning late from training with a fresh injury acquired out of a watchful eye. Borderline irate yet somehow dipped in concern, it was a look John wasn't expecting, especially considering that the last time they saw one another, they nearly came to fists.

"What happened?" Marcus briskly asked.

A pang of nostalgia throbbed through John's aching ribs, but without the title of Black Peak as a reference, John couldn't tell if the fighter was exasperated, worried, or just emotionally constipated. Maybe a mix of all three. Either way, the real question was; what _didn't_ happen? It'd take a lifetime and a handful of feathers to explain, and they didn't have either, only a five second delay on the detonator.

"Everybody clear!" Mr. Bentley shouted.

The party dispersed to either side of the hallway. Liam quickly withdrew his pokemon and an explosion blew a matching hole through the second wall, rumbling the compound with splits down the infrastructure. Flecks of cement and plaster clattered onto the now settled pieces of larger debris. Mr. Bentley pulled away from the wall with a proud wink to his eye. Liam did the same just beyond his shoulder. John roughly coughed, struggling to regain his breath, while Marcus swiped away the smoke, just as irritated as his fellow trainer's lungs.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" the fighter shouted. "I thought you were supposed to be a bodyguard?"

"More like a babysitter," Benny huffed as he stood from his crouch along the wall.

Liam popped out from behind him. "Now, you're starting to get it," he winked.

Without waiting for the grunts to recover from the sudden reconstruction and coordinate their attack, the Ace jumped through the hole to the outside world. Bentley quickly followed. He couldn't risk losing sight of his charge while waiting for the others to follow suit, and they didn't linger far behind. The sweet breeze of outdoor air brought with it the tidings of freedom and the scent was too powerful for John to ignore. He mustered up a trot and emerged through the hole. Marcus brought in the rear. They were met with light. Not the natural, unfiltered, shining bright rays of the sun, but the whitewashed drone of buzzing flood and spot lights.

Blinded, John raised a hand and nearly bulldozed into Liam who had stopped just outside of the hole. Luckily, his feet didn't need to see to work. A quick slight of step avoided a collision and John shifted to stand in line with the others. Liam stood at point. Bentley and John flanked him a step or so behind and Marcus clenched his hands into fists at the rear, glaring as hard at the lights as they at him.

"From the frying pan," he growled.

"And into the fire," John whispered.

The group stood in the outdoor loading zone of a warehouse compound just beyond the rubble of their escape. Every flood light, security camera, and street lamp had been turned on to light nearly a three block radius. The black night sky above offered a crisp background to the silhouettes of a squadron of grunts positioned to match the escapees' line up. There were at least five cronies accessorized in blue and two dressed in the telltale cobalt uniform of Sapphire's upper echelon.

Second Lieutenant Giles tilted his felt bowler hat down at the ragtag group of rebels, but the glare wasn't nearly as imposing as the tailored smile of the woman standing beside him. She too, favored the colors of the sea, wearing a skin tight button up dress with a milotic embroidered along the side. It swam down the curve of her breasts to the hip high slit along her thigh. Silver bracelets ran three inches deep on her wrists, making the bangles more of an armament than accessory.

Blue, Sapphire's first lieutenant, took her syndicate to heart, especially when double crossed.

"Look who it is," Blue exclaimed with a flutter of her shimmer shadowed eyes at Liam. "You're just the man I was looking for." She glanced between the decrepit and delectable beside him. "And it looks like you brought your friends along too. Perfect." Having been assigned the task of rooting out, hunting down, and disposing off the rebels brazen enough to sabotage the Cage House, Blue couldn't have asked for a better turn of events, despite being taken by surprise at the sudden explosion. But what was a few concussions when the enemy danced so willingly into your lap?

Several of the grunts pulled out their pokeballs and released the energies inside. It was the usual line up of trash diggers, smoke makers, and shadow creepers grunts tended to favor. Nothing special about them except their numbers, of which, were more than enough to botch any well executed escape plan, let alone a haphazard one.

"I have to say," Blue continued with a motion to the hole in the wall, not so much the reinforcements that suddenly filled it. "You've got style. It's a shame such finesse is wasted on a couple of dead men."

"Now, you see," Liam interrupted with a sheepishly corrective wink of his eye, "when you say _dead men_ , I think of pirates, and I've never really thought of us as a pirate crew." Marcus rolled his eyes in the background. Liam smiled as if he had seen it. "If you're going to threaten us, you might as well do it in proper theme."

"What the hell are you going on about now, Valenis?" Blue groaned with added exasperation. His flirtatious tenacity was well known throughout _all_ of the Houses, and it often led to more headache than heartache.

"Isn't it obvious?" Liam explained as he motioned to his team. " _This_ is the makings of a fairytale. Can't you see it, the damsel in distress, courageous knight, noble stead, and witty comic relief?"

" _Hey_!" Someone interjected from the background. Liam ignored their disapproval. So did Blue.

"All that inbreeding has gone to your head," she said.

"And I'm sure you and your _Jewel_ know all about _that_."

Blue suddenly flushed red.

"Oh, and don't let me forget," Liam continued as a polished fang cut into his grin, "Every hero's quest needs an evil witch to slay." He pulled off a pokeball with the sharpness of a rapier and motioned it at Blue. "I can burn that wart off of your nose if you'd like."

Blue tore off a pokeball in kind.

"I'd like to see you try!" she shrieked.

But it wasn't the light of materialization that suddenly strobed through the night and split the tension. This light was of a different nature.

It was brighter and sharper, more like a meteor burning through the atmosphere than a flash. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, darkening the night even further in its retreat. All eyes shifted upwards to follow the tracer. It was hard to see through the fluorescent floods of artificial light but there was something odd about that patch of space where the flash had appeared. It glistened the same way water did on still days. One would have missed it if their eyes had not been burned into a new spectrum. The shine became a shimmer. It grew larger, gaining shape and texture as more light refracted and reflected within to create swiveling glass like shards. It may have been the neon reflection of the city several stories below, but there was an opal like flicker to the edges of the developing circle. The panels crackled inward, distorting the space so much that it now looked to be made of crystal.

Something suddenly throbbed in John's chest. He dropped down to one knee, clutching his heart against his sudden shortness of breath. Liam instantly dropped down beside him but it was the sky that John winced up at. The shimmering patch of air suddenly smoothed into the picture of a world unfamiliar to him, to all of them. A horizon line, steeped in purple and velvet green cut through the middle of it, and it was then, that John realized, that the patch wasn't a picture, but a portal.

And something was coming through it.


	42. Marked for Death: 2

**Marked for Death: 2**

The pain hit John hard and fast, forcing him to double over as another wave of searing heat burned his body from the inside out. The flame inside him, as invisible as it was agonizing, flared back to life as the portal opened. It scorched through his skin and bone, incinerating every tissue and organ in between, riding his blood faster than gasoline. Like the mythical flame, John's screams went undetected to the world around him, but it wasn't for the lack of trying. A screech opened the dimensional rift floating above the compound. It danced between the peaks of the Champagne and Valic Mountain Ranges, preparing this world for a creature from another.

A bird pokemon suddenly soared out of the crystal window in the sky, causing the very space around it to shake and vibrate in an airborne earthquake. Even at this distance, it was easy to see that the bird spanned an entire city block from wing tip to wing tip. Calculating color was more difficult because the light never struck its feathers the same way twice. The pokemon banked to circle the warehouse complex. Several smooth waves of visual splendor flashed across its back, causing a cascade of color down each feather like the streaking edge of a prism. Its body disappeared and reappeared several times against the sharp contrast of night and artificial light, almost as if passing in and out of the visual spectrum.

Liam slowly stood at the pokemon's appearance and spun to watch it circle the warehouse district. Despite the bird's size, it didn't make a sound during flight. The only sound that arose was the scratch and rumble of concrete as the monstrous aviary descended onto a skyscraper rooftop. Satellite dishes and vent covers scraped away against the brush of its landing. Only when spotlighted by the city workings below did the pokemon finally materialize into solid form. The brick and motor of civilization's architectural advancements downgraded to Lego bricks against the smooth multitude of colors coursing across the pokemon's body.

A rainbow arched across Treasure Cove.

It started in fire and ended in ash.

Legendary pokemon, Ho-oh, shrieked with the sounds of extinction and dove off of the edge of the rooftop. The friction of the wind against her feathers ignited flames along her body. They stretched backwards, dousing her wings in a blazing cloak of energy. She soared over the city as a god draped in the sun. The strange unanticipated illumination drew out several curious eyes. Bystanders and security personnel alike stopped to look up at the living fireball screeching across the night sky.

And what they saw, was hell.

Cinders dropped from Ho-oh's burning body with the weight of rain. They paved the way for an assault that suddenly lit up the night in a hailstorm of fire. Fireballs showered across the warehouse district, shrieking louder than the screams of the people scrambling for cover below. A bombardment of explosions trailed underneath the rainbow pokemon's shadow as she passed by above.

"Take cover!" First Lieutenant Blue screamed as the flaming shadow passed over in a rattle of the House windows.

Grunts scattered. Liam and the others did the same as several explosions peppered the street. John flinched against the superheated dirt flying up against the side of his face. Liam jumped through a shower of it and Marcus couldn't pull Mr. Bentley away fast enough before another shelling hurled them across the street. John caught the separation in the corner of his eye, attempted to stop, and tripped over his own ankles. He fell across the weed studded concrete, causing Liam to skid to a halt and bump shoulders with the frantic paths of freshly harassed citizen's swarming for cover. Combine a _sacred fire_ with a _sky attack_ and it was World War III.

Up above, the legendary bird banked again, lining up for another pass across the district. She leveled out and ran into her own turbulence. It sharply dropped her several feet in the air, hard enough to shake off her fiery coat. Thick and heavy with energized plasma, the flames dropped better than a bucket of water thrown into a freefall, a bucket the size of a house. Satan himself could not have aimed the attack any better. It fell for the warehouse lot, illuminating everyone underneath with hellish trepidation. There was no cover in a dirt bound parking lot, but there were still a few Ace trainers. Liam snatched off a pokeball from his belt and threw it as hard and as high as he could over John. He then sprinted underneath its arch before the ball split open with a crack.

" _Overwatch_!" Liam yelled.

It was a preset command of action John would have attributed more to a Ranger than an Ace, but then again, maybe that's why Aria used to talk about the Valenis family so much.

John sat up from his stumble only for Liam to tackle him to the ground again. And for good reason. Hamilton, the swampert, landed above them in a _mud sport_. A cloud of dirt and dust rose up around them. It mixed with the water evaporating from the tugboat pokemon's fins and thickened into a thin sheet of mud that was spontaneously caked into a solid sphere by the swirling updraft of the rapidly approaching flames. Liam always liked to play hard ball. Too bad Legendaries didn't care to play the game.

Ho-oh's fiery exoskeleton splashed against the earthenware bubble. It shattered upon impact, forcing Hamilton to drop his stance underneath the pressure and flatten the two trainers underneath. Flames billowed outward across the compound. A concussion of heat followed and blew back Onyx's braid as she stepped onto the grounds. Several accompanying grunts retreated in the sudden blistering assault. The Royal Jewel stepped forward, eyes flashing without the aid of her glasses. Even her wounded bloodshot eye flickered in delight when it caught a glimpse of the rainbow stretching across the city.

"There she is," she gasped, trying to digest the fantasy rapidly unfolding before her.

Ho-oh lifted higher into the sky. Her multicolored form flickered in and out of invisibility against the play of artificial light below and the shadow of night above. It smoothed whenever she passed over the fires raging across town. Their light reflected in her feathers, alluding to the shape and form of the Legendary passing above. But Ho-oh wasn't trying to hide. Not this time. Whatever couldn't be seen, was heard as she screeched more fury and fire into the night.

Gun fire answered the call.

Yellow muzzle flashes attempted to outperform the bird's flames in devastation and domination. Each one struck the Black Jewel's patience more than the bird's feathers. Onyx quickly threw out her own voice, carrying with it every ounce of authority and intimidation she possessed.

"Hold your fire!" she snarled, her rage the only thing strong enough to split through the chaos. "I want that pokemon alive!"

Black, red, blue, and green uniforms alike ceased flailing in hysteria now that there was a veteran of violence in sight. Several snapped rightfully to attention just shy of a salute. Onyx cut through them and snapped a pokeball off of her belt. The bottom of her jacket flared upwards in excitement behind her. Billowing smoke curled away from the heat of her new found fervor. The Jewel's trek through the compound after the fugitives' escape wasn't wasted on panting, panic, or passive submission. Plans were always ready and preparations made.

"Catch it!" she commanded. "Use everything we have!"

Several of the grunts rallied around her call. They ducked into buildings, threw open weapon stashes, and reemerged fit for the war they always knew was coming one way or another. With a Jewel on display, First Lieutenant Blue collected her bearings and marched up to Onyx's blatant territorial overstep of the House Rules.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yelled over the stomping boots and rattling anti-pokemon gear shifting around them. "This is Cage House territory, and that includes anything in it. Sapphire will-," Onyx shoved Blue out of the way with an effortless and well-aimed shove. Stunned, the lieutenant's surviving posse could only watch their commander crumple to the ground in humiliation against the viper's strike.

"First rule of pokemon," the Black Jewel exclaimed as she loaded a fresh magazine into the semi-automatic pistol handed to her. "You catch it. You keep it."

As if challenged, Ho-oh shrieked again, but it was the voice commanding from below that inspired more fear. The pokemon above may be legendary but so was the reputation of the Royal Jewel, and for those under her pirate flag, it wasn't their first pokemon round up in the midst of upheaval. Chaos, in fact, was their main line of opportunity.

Several grunts swathed in black lined up along the edge of one of the business tower rooftops. They set their sights on the bird cutting through the cityscape. Ho-oh would have to pass between this section of buildings for a successful hit across the warehouse district. With new standing orders to capture the bird alive, every hand exchanged their weapons for empty pokeballs ranging from red to black. The grunts waited and watched with predatory patience. Surrounding buildings rumbled with the approach of the feathered behemoth. She came within their line of fire.

"Now!" the rooftop captain screamed.

Ho-oh flew around the business tower and into a metallic shower perfectly timed with her appearance. Pokeballs split and popped against her feathers. Wisps of energy coursed over her wings easier than weak huffs of cloud. For an instant, against the stream of energized particles, Ho-oh looked to be aflame again, but not a single atom of attraction stuck. One beat tossed away the remaining clutter but not the grunts' resolve. A _solar beam_ suddenly streaked upwards through the skyscrapers, cutting through the black of night better than a sharpened blade. Ho-oh banked to avoid it. She screeched again and matched the assault with her own offensive.

The opal like glimmer to her feathers suddenly stretched and hardened into a _light screen_. Combined with the reflective glass and metal of the city, the bird's body looked to be made of transparent crystal. It was a visually depth defying feat. One that inspired more terror than bewilderment, especially when two more _solar beams_ crossed the bird's path and she soared through them. They refracted against the _light screen_ better than a prism. The _beams_ split into a dozen smaller rays that bent backwards, sideways, and onto one another with the ever changing angle of Ho-oh's pounding wings. Several screams pierced through the mayhem as the attacks backfired and cut across the city better than laser beams. They showered the streets below in glass, iron and cheap advertisements. One crossed a propane tank and it exploded in a shrieking cloud of debris. Several other _beams_ crisscrossed one another and ignited in the air, spurring a fireworks display that attempted to appease the myth currently burning its existence back into reality.

Earth, air, and fire now bent against the will of the legendary pokemon's rampage.

It was only appropriate to throw a little water into the mix.

Cheeks bulging with a _Hydro Cannon_ , Hamilton lifted his head into the glow of an oncoming _solar beam_ fragment. Pressurized water whistled from his lips. Sea and sky collided in a steamy sizzle that created a cloud of steam that washed over the tugboat pokemon's skin. It moisturized and reenergized as much as it concealed the two trainer's hiding underneath the Swampert's protective guard.

Liam and John lifted their faces from the dirt and wiped away the moisture gathering on their skin. A turntable of light and shadow across the ground warned of Ho-oh's passing above. The trainers quickly hid their faces against another screech that simultaneously stirred up a heavy gust of wind. It rustled their clothes and kicked up more rubble along the ground. John winked an eye through his bandaged arms. Having been raised on the peak of a mountain, he learned to distinguish the types of cries made by the pokemon dwelling within the forests and valleys. Those that sang, those that cried, and those that were trying to connect.

Ho-oh was looking for something.

And according to Onyx, it was her flame, but the only flames still burning were those that the bird had planted herself. Flames in the literal sense, at least. A memory rushed to the forefront of John's mind. He saw Sensei at Commencement. He saw the Cork City gym badge fill his palm and felt a hand over his heart in a reluctant goodbye. John brushed his forehead against the ground to look at the five fingered memory imprinted on his chest. He felt the fire fueling his veins with an internal heat meant for pokemon. Not people.

Lying prostrate on the ground was the only thing keeping John from falling over.

"She's not going to stop," he softly quoted. "Not until she recovers what has been stolen."

Ho-oh wasn't looking for just anything. She was looking for her flame. The one currently burning inside of the trainer left by the traces of the _Rainbow Wing_.

She was looking for him.

John found it funny how the world liked to remind him on a daily basis that his life was worthless, yet found the explicit need to try and take it from him all the same. He had come to expect such cold irony. After all, when it came down to it, the world was cruel. Vermillion had told him as much, and merely looking out into the frantic feet of the world beyond Hamilton's protection proved that. Enemy, friend, civilian, they were all the same when running for their lives. Equals upon the appearance of a single pokemon powerful enough to make a permanent mark in history with just its legend. No wonder Onyx obsessively hoarded her antiques. Some of them weren't as ancient as the world thought them to be. Ho-oh was as real as any of them, hunting like any pokemon would in the wild.

It was a world of juxtapositions. A world in a constant state of fluctuation. A world filled with life lessons, ranger rules, and the consequences of failing to listen to each.

John glanced to the side at Liam. The ace rolled onto his back and patted Hamilton on the belly in a job well done. He laughed lightly. Unafraid. Excited even. He chuckled with a love of pokemon no matter how powerful, dangerous, or outrageous they may be. For a moment, the laugh sounded akin to a Ranger's.

John rested his head against the dirt again.

Time travel. The future. His future. He felt the distance between the past and present timelines now more than ever. Had there ever been a chance to set them straight? Was returning home even possible after bending the rules of space and time? Growing up, John never met anyone that resembled him, not even vaguely. There were no rumors or stories of a man out of place, a man who had lived his life on the Valic Range with a knowledge of the mountains so extensive that it was as if he had already lived a lifetime upon them. There was no version of a "John Hawkins" growing old and living in Boulder to the oblivion of his younger self.

Now, the trainer was starting to understand why.

He never made it home at all.

John quietly sighed. The weight of his reality laid heavily on his chest. But then again, he had been carrying that weight since the day he learned of Aria's death and hadn't had a chance to catch his breath since. Why start now?

John mustered up as much strength as he could and crawled out from underneath Hamilton's legs. He powered through a wobble and scrambled to his feet, right into another gust of passing wind. It blew the dirt out of the folds of his bandages, making it seem as if Pharaoh had thrown open his tomb once more. Liam quickly rolled onto his stomach, still underneath the shadow of his pokemon.

"Wait!" he yelled. "It's not safe!"

John had the impression that nothing in his life was safe.

Hamilton sympathized with the trainers as a squadron of grunts organized themselves nearby. He bellowed out a ripple of warning and pivoted to face the oncoming assault, forcing Liam to truck in and stay still to avoid being squashed. John forced himself to continue on. He didn't even dare glance back. The safest place for Liam right now was as far away from him as possible. Separating himself from his friends pained John as much as the _Rainbow Wing'_ s mark, but the agony was all the more reason to press forward.

Who cared if he was marked for death? Everyone had to die sometime. Protecting life is what mattered, and right now, John would protect as many lives as he could. Damn this curse and damn the people who thought it would stop him. He would use it for good, as much as he could, and for as long as he can. His life may be the butt of everyone's favorite joke, but it was in those fires of unceasing tribulation that his determination was forged, and it was the heat of such passions that fueled him now when the rest of him was battered and broken. Giving up wasn't an option. It never was.

Sensei had said it and now John finally believed it. No figurative life lessons or mystic ranger rules, just plain and simple fact: The spirit was powerful, and he would show the world just how beautifully his burned.

The flame inside John suddenly surged. It grew hotter, larger, and more powerful, forcing John into a gasping wince against its might. He caught himself from collapsing and clenched back the pain. Sweat glistened across his forehead.

Brighter. He needed the flame to burn brighter, bright enough to rival the light of a legendary pokemon and draw her away from everyone but himself.

It was a daunting task, especially when everyone _but_ himself was out to capture said pokemon.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" the captain shouted as he waved the next line of grunts to the edge of the business tower rooftop. Black boots kicked aside the shells of empty pokeballs to make room for the dual stands of a high powered rifle. Fitted to fire pokeballs and not bullets, its oversized barrel scratched against the concrete. "Hurry up!" the Captain shouted again

Ho-oh glided into a straight away that put her in a head on collision with the rooftop. She lowered deeper into the City, perfectly in line with the barrel's sights. Her head swiveled back and forth in concentrated focus.

"But what about the scope?" one of the grunts cried as he juggled the mechanics of the weapon, fully aware that the setup was anything but standard regulation.

"Forget it!" the Captain snarled. Ho-oh drew closer to the end of her straightaway. A few more seconds and she would veer out of range. "The monster's as big as a house!" He shoved aside the nearest grunt. "Just point and shoot, damn it!"

The grunt hastily loaded a pokeball into the weapon. Shelled in black, clamped in silver, and sporting a glowing red release, the probation ball fit perfectly into place. As did the second and third. They were the finest pokemon capturing devices an overbearing government could ever create. Extremely illegal outside of the military and extremely effective at subduing the wildest of monsters, Onyx always kept a few on hand.

Three back to back shots enforced the Captain's orders. The probation balls flew true, smashing into the crook of Ho-oh's wing and chest with expert marksmanship. They popped in several puffs of energized confetti faster than glass spit balls against a brick wall. Ho-oh changed direction. She hastily landed on the brick edge of the rooftop, talons first. Curses turned into screams as grunts and gravel flew over the edges. Those left behind paled in the shadow of the two enormous wings arching over them like greedy hands. If it wasn't for the closeness of the buildings beside them, Ho-oh would have hopped on top of them faster than mouse pokemon. Instead, her long scissor snapping bill clipped one of the grunts darting into the stairwell.

On ground level, John hobbled up to the business tower. He bent over in a hunch, panting heavily and struggling to keep his eyes open against the scorching fatigue of his own boiling blood.

"Hey!" he rasped with a weak throw his hand that nearly caused him to fall over without its support. "Down here!"

It was a fruitless effort. There was no way his voice made it to the roof. He could barely hear it himself. John hung his head. His body grew heavier and heavier with every passing second. He could feel his heartbeat slow despite his best efforts to stay awake. There wasn't much time left. He needed to get Ho-oh's attention, but how? He couldn't raise his voice let alone climb to the top of a high rise. But then again, he didn't train at the Cork City Dojo for nothing.

Life Lesson #13: It is not your voice that commands, but your presence.

The teaching was more of a natural reflex than a lesson in a place where reading body language often meant the difference between going to bed with a pillow or ice pack to the head. For John, it was perhaps one of the most difficult lessons he had ever tried to implement in his life. Not just because his tongue was as flexible as Sensei's fists, but because commanding attention involved standing in the spotlight, and stargazing wasn't possible from such a position.

All of the lights in the compound suddenly went out, along with half of the power in the warehouse district. John glanced around at the sudden darkening. It strengthened the contrast between the fires raging across the city, wailing emergency sirens, and the night. Smoke now clouded the view of the stars beyond. There was no way Ho-oh would find him in the chaos, not without a beacon to guide her. John turned his eyes to the ground. He needed to light a flare inside of him to draw the bird's focus. The sudden wave of darkness helped, but he'd only get one chance to capture her attention.

So what did he say to the legendary pokemon of myth on a warpath to reclaim her stolen flame?

John looked deep into the earth's core, all the way through to the other side where the stars twinkled at him despite everything in between. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. At the same time, the rampage on the rooftop suddenly ceased. Ho-oh lowered her wings. She turned her beak up with a heavy swing. John dropped his hands from his knees and straightened his back. Both shoulders relaxed into place and the line of his jaw tilted to the sky. Ho-oh jumped onto the edge of the rooftop. The building grunted and groaned as she leaned over the edge to look down at the human below. A gusty wind tossed up his hair. It revealed the light shining in his eyes, small but pure. So very much like her own. Several stories apart, the two looked directly at one another.

"Sorry, I'm late," John said.

A rainbow spread across the city again. Ho-oh stretched out to full length. From wingtip to wingtip, there was no denying the magnificence of her form. Light and shadow no longer played a game of hide and seek with her presence. Her gaze no longer searched. What was lost had been found. Ho-oh bent down in a pounce. Her talons cut into the brick and any grunt still standing on the roof found himself flat on his ass as the bird dove off of the tower. John watched her descent, so focused on the pokemon coming from the front that he never saw the one coming from the back. A _string shot_ suddenly hit the trainer's back, throwing itself around his chest and arms better than a magnetic net. John stumbled forward only to be yanked backwards and off of his feet. He hit the ground running but it wasn't his legs that were moving.

Dracks, Onyx's ariados and personal party Polisher, sprinted across the compound as fast as his six legs would go, dragging the trainer behind him by the tether of a _string shot_. John struggled, but with both arms pinned to his chest, the movement only dislodged his sandals and cut up his feet against the broken concrete. Several bandages along his calves shredded against the rubble, leaving a small blood trail behind. Ho-oh landed in the now vacated spot. A cloud of wind and frustration blew outwards, smothering several fires before they flared up even stronger than before as she took to the air in pursuit. Dracks kept several eyes aimed at the sky. Without a sun or flaming firestorm to create a shadow, the bird could easily strike without warning given the opportunity.

So could the other pokemon still on the ground.

The line pulling John suddenly snapped. Dracks lurched forward, spinning to find the frayed ends of his _string shot_ glowing with the power of an _overheat_. Zoro landed in the newly formed gap and relaxed his claws from the open faced uppercut still glazing his hand. Behind him, Marcus grabbed John by the back of the collar and lifted the trainer to his feet as easily as a military duffle bag.

"Makin' new friends?" he asked with a glance at the hissing spider. "Look, she even talks as much as you."

Dracks spat out another _string shot_ as vile as the curses flooding his mandibles. It soared over Zoro, straight for Marcus. The fighter lifted John so that the webbing struck the trainer in the stomach like a _sucker punch_. It lapped over him in a second coating. Some of it even splashed up and stretched across his face. John shifted a tired glare at the fighter through the silky mesh.

Marcus quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said. "Figured you already had your hands tied."

Zoro rolled his eyes at the comment and it nearly cost him his sight. A _Spider Web_ suddenly spun towards him in perfect symmetrical proportion. The spinning net ripped into shreds against another well timed _overheat_ , but as soon as Zoro hit the ground, another _web_ took its place. Spitting, slathering, and salivating, all manner of straight lines, wobbling threads, and precision _shots,_ Dracks forced the combusken into every evasive maneuver in the book. Zoro could barely land from a dodge before another attack sent him reeling again. It took only a few rounds before Dracks picked up the pattern and caught Zoro by the foot. The combusken landed and immediately found himself plastered to the concrete, jerking slightly in a failed launch.

Marcus quickly dropped his grin and John even faster.

"Hey!" he shouted before he tossed John to the side and out of the way.

The trainer took no offense. It wasn't like he offered much help in this condition anyway. Instead of waiting for another rescue, John rolled over to try and stand, but doing so with no arms, a bad knee, and no strength left him scooting across the ground rather than getting to his feet. Marcus, however, stomped forward with the weight of a giant ingrained with a bad disposition for wrecking shit. His earthquake inspired steps couldn't be ignored, especially not with six legs.

Dracks hissed another _string shot_ to life. It crisscrossed in a fit of violent silly string to become a _spider's web_. The attack slapped across Marcus from head to foot with the weight of a giant flank steak. It wasn't enough to dislodge him, but the moment his hand brushed against his thigh, the two fastened together as if born that way. The rest of the heavy ropes cemented together, suddenly freezing him in an awkward lean caught between recovery and surprise.

Unfortunately, they didn't cement the fighter's lips together. A flood of curses gushed out between Marcus' clenched teeth. Zoro didn't utter so much as a chirp. Why waste the energy? After the third tug, the combusken realized that brute force wouldn't break the seal. Not even if it came from a prodigy like Marcus. What they needed now was a flame as hot as the fighter's temper.

Zoro cupped his hands over his face and delicately blew an _ember_ into the seat of his claws. Orange energized eggs pooled within the makeshift nest and melted together to make a warm glowing plasma. He lathered his hands with the energized flame and rubbed it across the webbing strapped around his foot. The silky wires began to burn with the disintegrating glow of a cigarette butt. Fire energy chewed its way inward until a wiggle of the toes freed the captive of his chains entirely. Zoro quickly hopped up onto Marcus' shoulder and repeated the process. He sighed out several more _embers_ and applied them to Marcus' joints.

From the outskirts of battle, Liam trotted up to the pair with enough mischief in his smile to give question to the origins of the dried mud splattered across his face and body. Making mud pies with grunts was always fun, but when Hamilton started cooking, it was best to leave the kitchen. The ace quickly glanced around for pursuing grunts, found none, and turned his attention to Marcus and Zoro. With such gentle firmness, one would have thought the combusken was training to be a masseuse.

"Experimenting with new spa treatments?" Liam asked. "I'd recommend a facial but you'll probably need something a little more permanent to fix that ugly mug of yours." The Ace gestured to his own mud studded face. Marcus tore through the lattice of stiff webbing with a single feral growl.

"What are you talking about?" he snarled while ripping a tuft of _string_ from his sharp goatee. "I'm adorable."

And utterly terrible when it came to pokemon battling.

Zoro landed in a crouch from the outburst and glanced around the battlefield for the spider too smart to wait its turn. Dracks was already on the move. He had John in motion again, this time, dragging the trainer along by a thread from his mouth. They were already several yards away from the others thanks to the webbing that stifled any cry of warning from the incapacitated trainer. Zoro hurried after them, passing between Marcus's legs in the process. The fighter looked down and around, spinning to keep up with his pokemon. Liam took up the chase in his stead.

"Burn up that bastard!" Marcus shouted from the back of the group, still struggling to kick his way free of the sticky leftovers. With the enemy reorganized, Dracks flared his mandibles in a hiss stuffed with mal-intent.

"Wait!" Liam amended with a hard stretch of the arm. Even from here, he could see the venom pouches in Dracks' mouth bulge around the tether. One good bite would empty the pouches, drenching the back of John's neck in venom. It could permanently paralyze him, or even worse, cause enough brain damage to send him back to Garden Cruise Memorial's _Attic_.

"What are you waiting for?" Marcus shouted just as hastily. "That spider isn't the only one on the hunt!"

Liam didn't understand what the fighter meant until a tsunami of fire suddenly roared across the district. It lit up the entire night in a sudden and blinding brilliance compounded by the reflective glass of the buildings. Open city streets funneled the flames straight into the spider's path. John and Dracks flinched as the blazing flood washed over them, creating a wall of fire between them and the others. Liam, Marcus, and Zoro retreated several steps against the sudden onslaught. It instantly incinerated every mental measure the group had taken to prepare themselves for this rescue mission.

For Dracks, it burned much more. He shrieked against the flames on his flesh, snapped off the thread, and abandoned John before the blaze cost him his life. His webbing didn't last through the retreat. The heat evaporated the moisture within the strands almost instantly. Threads peeled away several layers at a time only to catch fire and disintegrate into specks of ash. John attempted to stand as his restraints crumbled faster than dust in the wind. He was barely on his feet before the flames transferred onto his bandages.

John looked at his flaming hands then up at Liam and Marcus across the way. Liam couldn't find the voice to call to him nor the strength to move, not when the dead earth burned as if soaked with oil, and John stood there, burning just the same. His figure became nothing more than a silhouette, hazy and distorted in the heat and smoke of the fire that consumed him. Ho-oh appeared just as quickly as her inferno and dropped out of the sky upon the trainer. Her wings whipped up a fiery cloud of volcanic proportions that hit the surrounding crowd harder than an energized attack. It blew Zoro off of his feet. Marcus caught him with one hand and held Liam back with the other. The ace attempted to press into the storm as Ho-oh took to the sky with a flaming parcel in her talons.

"You can't!" Marcus yelled with a wink of his eye against the stinging ash ridden tornado.

"I can still catch him!" Liam replied.

Having walked several hellish landscapes in her life, Onyx materialized out of the sudden rush of flaming charcoal with just as much passion as the ace.

"He's getting away!" she screamed.

Several grunts more ragged and weary than war torn veterans appeared beside her, but it was too late. Another strobing flash blinded those below. Having witnessed it before, Liam recognized it as a _light screen_. One powerful enough to bend light and create a hole in space. Once more, a portal crystalized and tightened into the picture of a foreign land floating above the city. Ho-oh soared into it, and the bird pokemon large enough to sit upon a house, disappeared across an invisible line in half a second.

Flat, black, transparent air once again filled the space.

The terrible ravaging winds of flight slowed. Dust settled and the flames died down with nothing left to burn. Grunts poked their heads out of hiding. Citizen's caught in the street during the attack shimmed out of unseen crevices. All cautiously tilted their heads to the sky in a squint to try and find exactly where it was that their peaceful routine had gone awry. But the window was shut. The portal was closed. There was nothing but the slightest of shimmers where the last few particles of air realigned themselves back into normality. Nothing left but a cloudy sky apathetic to the sudden vacuum of power cooling below.

Liam refused to believe it.

He continued to stare at the sky even as Marcus roughly came back to back with him. The fighter lowered his shoulders and raised his fists with a flash of teeth. The grunts, no longer distracted by the sky, had turned their eyes to the ground and the enemy still within reach. Several enemy pokemon had survived the barrage as healthy and immoral as ever. They overpowered Hamilton and quickly surrounded Marcus, Zoro, and Liam. Their trainers followed. All battle ready, pokemon and pistols in hand. Two of them wrestled Mr. Bentley into view. Marcus took a fondness to the bodyguard when Benny managed to elbow one of the grunts in the gut, but the victory was short lived. They shoved their captive at the feet of the others. Marcus pulled Benny to his feet just as roughly. The bodyguard bounced up with surprising speed. Blood and black eyes, it seemed, only made him move faster.

Onyx walked into the circle, commanding all attention except her own. She stared at the same patch of sky as Liam. A multicolored phantom lingered in her glassy eye.

In an instant, the _Rainbow Wing_ , Ho-oh, and its mark were gone.

Burnt up like the chances Liam and the others had of escape.


	43. Marked for Death: 3

**Marked for Death: 3**

Grunts.

The cheap, cowardly, loathsome little bastards.

Marcus hated them, almost as much as he hated poor teachings and prohibition. They were the epitome of everything foul, lackluster, and lazy. It took five of them just to restrain him, not including the two left unconscious in the parking lot. Numbers were their only advantages. True, their ranks might carry a select few individuals worthy of being called a threat, but they too were nothing more than schemers, conspirators, and traitors. To hell with the lot of them, and to hell with the thought that even when wielding the upper hand, they were capable of getting the best of him.

Marcus hung his arms through the bars of his one man cell. Caged in the back of a dusty storage room, there was little to entertain oneself. He leaned into the metal at a causal angle, making it seem as if he had been there forever. Iron bars weren't unfamiliar. Neither was baiting a few blue embroidered berets for a little amusement. Marcus whistled to gain their attention. The two grunts stationed at the door didn't move. Unlike Onyx's men, they were the classic low-class grimer scum Marcus tended to scrape off of the bottom of his shoes . . . when he actually decided to wear them.

" _Eh_!" he shouted across the old abandoned storeroom, shaking several cobwebs loose from their strings. Both guards glanced up. "I'm bored. One of ya come'ere and keep me company."

The smarter of the two, officially dubbed Einstein for his genius way of ignoring imprisoned hecklers, looked away into the hall outside. His partner scoffed with a backwards glance. Marcus leaned a little deeper into the bars. His deep set eyes darkened against the shadow of his face. They narrowed in on the grunt amused by wisecracks, the Fool. He had drifted into babysitting taboo: Never acknowledge the presence of a prisoner.

"Is holding the door up really that exciting or are you just that scared of lookin' at my pretty little face?" Marcus continued. Fool and Einstein had stood there long enough for fidgeting to set in. They were as restless and impatient as their prisoner when it came to politics of the higher order. They had needs just like any other, and after a couple of hours of occasional taunting without anything but staring at the wall to do, they were starting to fester. It was time to up the ante.

"Here, Pussy cat. Here Pussy, Pussy," Marcus whistled.

In an instant, Fool's scoff turned into a scowl. He looked into the room.

"Oh, ho, ho! That's quite the frown," the fighter jeered.

"Just ignore him," Einstein advised. He quickly fished in his pockets for a distraction. "You got a light?"

But of course, Fool was a fool. "You haven't gone hoarse yet?" he moaned.

The little fish wasn't just nibbling anymore. He had taken a bite. One Marcus was sure the grunt couldn't swallow. "I know, how about a song to cheer you up?" Marcus proposed with a devilish grin. " _99 bottles of beer on the wall. 99 bottles of beer_ ," he sang. " _Take one down. Pass it around. 98 bottles of beer on the wall. 98 bottles of beer~_."

Fool immediately realized the enormity of his mistake. "For Christ's sake," he muttered, but it was already too late. The prisoner had not only been acknowledged, but engaged, and Marcus planned to use every ounce of his presence to make them all just as miserable as he.

" _97 bottles of beer on the wall. 97 bottles of beer_."

Fool tilted his head as if it would stop the rickety notes from reaching his ear. "We get it," he groaned in defeat.

The Dojo taught no mercy.

" _Take one down_. _Pass it around. 96 Bottles of beer on the wall_. _96 bottles of beer_."

"Shut up already."

" _Take one down_."

"I said shut up!"

" _Pass it around_."

"I'll fuckin' kill you!"

" _95 bottles of beer on the wall!"_

Fool whirled around with a snap of his baton. His rage flew as fast as his steps to the cage door. Marcus continued to belt out the notes even as Fool struck the bars in an attempt to dissuade him. Blue electricity ran across tarnished steel. The fighter lunged through the bars just as quickly, grabbed two fistfuls of cheap cotton, and slammed the grunt into the metal. They came face to face. Sheer terror had never been so intimate.

"What? You don't like my singing?" Marcus asked. He pulled the grunt's sweater tighter over his knuckles. Several threads popped in the silence, much like the muscles tightening in the fighter's jaw. Eyes black, face dark, and growl deep, he pulled Fool so close that the only thing between them was a prayer. "Because I don't mind skipping straight to the end where I kick the living shit out of you."

The two abruptly separated as Einstein struck a second blow across the cage with his own baton. As if tickled, the metal rang like chimes. They then thundered as Marcus suddenly struck the bars with his forearm. Both grunts flinched a good six inches backwards. Fool even stumbled. A slow cackle haunted the room as the fighter leaned against his cell once more. The veins on his granite hard arms swelled with hot, excited blood.

"Wanna try that again?" he asked.

Still at the top of his class, Einstein instantly relaxed and put a cigarette in his mouth. "Come on, let's go for a smoke," he diverted.

Fool wasn't listening. Whether out of survival instinct or rage, he couldn't break his gaze from the fighter's. Marcus didn't waste the attention. He meowed, as much as a heavy weight crowned in rusted iron could. Fool lunged for the cage again, but this time, Einstein was there to yank him back. It couldn't have been sooner. Marcus' steel paw swiped off Fool's beret in the half-second between bad judgement and a bad decision. The grunt stumbled back into his partner, eyes wide and face pale. His hat hit the ground when it should have been his head. Marcus grunted in disappointment, but there would be more opportunities to torture his captors later. He held onto the bars. His broad sloping shoulders shadowed his visage from the dim light flickering in the ceiling above him. His presence filled the room with the frigid force of an avalanche. Current body count: pending.

" _94 bottles of beer on the wall~_ ," he softly started again.

Einstein finally acknowledged the danger by quickly turning his partner around. "Come on," he repeated. "Let's go for a smoke." It wasn't the best bribe in the grunt's arsenal but the cage holding Marcus was built to withstand weasels and old whiskers, not MMA qualifiers. Better not to tests its limits. With an excuse to nurse his pride, Fool followed after his partner. The two left with a slam of the door. Dusty silence once again filled the storeroom in a flurry of forgotten snowflakes.

"Well," Mr. Bentley exclaimed from the far left of the room. He sat in a beat up old chair, tied to its legs, arms, and back with rope. "That couldn't have been more annoying."

Marcus lifted out of his hunch to scratch an itch of mild agitation. "Got'em outta here like you wanted, didn't it?" he barked.

Mr. Bentley squirmed in his restraints. With the guards gone, he could finally test the weakness of his bonds. To his surprise, there wasn't much. If there was one thing grunts did right, it was secure a body, usually the dead kind. Luckily for Mr. Bentley, he was still very much alive. "Honestly, I thought I was going to blow an eardrum," the bodyguard continued. "Just where the hell did you learn to sing? A pack of wild houndour?" He jerked back and forth to start rocking in place.

"Quit complaining and get loose so we can get the hell outta here," Marcus snapped.

"If you'd stop yammering in my ear, I might not be so distracted." Mr. Bentley's efforts and patience paid off. The chair tipped backward and hit the floor with a heavy _thunk_.

Marcus raised an eyebrow at the ungraceful display. A Cork City student would have easily snapped off the legs of the chair with a single squeeze of their thighs. Privatized company men specialized in protection were just as bad as the grunts. "And just what the hell kind of bodyguard gets himself locked up with the person he's supposed to protect?" Marcus added. He jabbed a thumb to the other side of the room where Liam also sat in a chair bound by restraints. The smug smile the ace wore made him more of a magician than a hostage.

"If I recall, it was your bright idea to charge in guns blazing," Mr. Bentley defended, "If you even had a thought at all. You charged in as hot as a blaziken before any of us had any idea what was _really_ going on." He slipped his feet over the end of the chair legs to free his ankles. "You practically announced we were coming. You're just lucky Liam is faster than you and got there first."

"Yeah, well, waiting for you to finish pussy footing around wasn't really working out," Marcus informed.

"It's called looking before you leap," Mr. Bentley corrected. "And if you would have just listened to me-"

"-then we would've never made it past the Cage House," Marcus exclaimed. "Not everything requires a manual."

"And not everything can be fixed with a fist."

Marcus squeezed two chains of white knuckles against the bars, taking the jab as a direct insult to his heritage and his house. "I'll show you what a fist can do," he promised.

Mr. Bentley scoffed. He then propped his feet onto the seat of the chair and pushed his upper half, and the ropes, over the back of the chair. The two separated on the floor. Human and restraints followed. Mr. Bentley shed several layers of rope onto the floor. "And that's exactly why you're in a cage and I'm a free man," he said.

Marcus sharply scoffed through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what it means to be a man. I bet you wouldn't last one day on the matts. You're even worse than that-," the fighter suddenly tensed and glanced over at Liam. The Ace casually stared him dead in the eye.

"-than that brat kid, John?" Liam finished.

Mr. Bentley froze and glanced between the two. Marcus turned his shame away with a squeeze of the bars. "Sorry," he muttered.

"For what?" Liam asked. "I'm sure John would consider it a compliment."

"That's not what I meant," Marcus said. His tone sharpened, cutting through the seven stages of grief almost instantly.

"I know what you meant," Liam coolly replied while glancing around the room, inspecting it now that the watchful eyes of the guards were gone. "But you're wrong."

A frown darkened Marcus' unshaven jaw line. "And how is that?" he dryly replied.

"There wasn't a single burn on John's body," Liam informed. "Didn't you see it?"

"Yeah, I saw it. The kid was burned alive and snatched up by a freakin' phoenix. We all saw it."

"He's not dead."

Reality. The celebrity ace floating on cloud 9 had no clue what it was like down in the real world. It was ugly. People died, and there was no fixing it. Not even for a Valenis. It was an insult to think that he could. Marcus pulled his lips back with the traces of a snarl. Rivers of veins bulged along his arms. An air of destruction and devastation thickened the room. Mr. Bentley quickly intervened.

"As much as I hate to admit it," he said while looping his restraints around his belt for later use. "But Goliath here has a point. You don't just spontaneously combust like that and live."

Liam shrugged, the bastard. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Marcus grabbed the bars of his cell with the intent of bench pressing them straight into the Ace's chest. "You did see it," he shouted. "And since when the hell have you ever had to see something to believe it? What about Rangers and all that other fairytale shit you're always goin' on about?" First denial, then insults, and now pure vanity on a cosmic scale? Marcus' rage shifted to the side of the cage closest to Liam. Contempt seethed inside of him. It brimmed and bubbled from a place simmering with disapproval since the two had first met. Losing John was just the boiling point to a pot already overfilled with unspoken grievances. "You and your fucking fantasies," the fighter continued. "Just admit it. Things went south."

Liam turned his head away. It only made Marcus move closer.

"This whole rescue mission was a Hail Mary from the very beginning and you know it."

Liam refused to look anywhere near the fighter. "It was coming around," he said much more softly.

"Like hell it was!"

"Settle down, Marcus, or you'll ruin everything," Mr. Bentley advised with a glance at the door. The grunts might return sooner than anticipated if they sensed commotion.

"Everything's already gone to hell," Marcus snapped back. He stabbed his glare deeper into Liam. "And that's why you can't accept it. You did everything you could to try to make up for your mistake and it still wasn't enough. Not even a Valenis and all his influence, charm, and power could fix it. You failed"

Liam's eyes fluttered lightly. Benny filled the Ace's silence.

"Leave him alone Marcus," he warned. The threat in the cage suddenly became just as dangerous as that beyond the door.

"I'm sick of all this reckless bullshit," the fighter exclaimed.

"Says the man who practically beat the reigning Blood Fist to a pulp with his bare hands because of a single insult to his ego," Mr. Bentley chided. His own tension escalating with that in the room. "You couldn't satisfy your bloodlust at the dojo so you moved on to the Ring. It's _your_ name that spawned this disaster. Not a Valenis."

"You shut the hell up," Marcus warned with a jab of his finger. "As a nanny you have to follow the house rules. I don't. I refuse to pamper this sonuva bitch anymore." He turned his finger at Liam. "What's eating you inside isn't grief but guilt. Life's too easy for you. All that money, power, and fame made everything just so damn boring, didn't it?" It all came rushing out, swirling in a typhoon of rage and regret. Things that had nothing, yet everything to do with John and this doomed operation. "The only way for you to get a thrill is through a death wish, and now, someone else has paid the price." The one person they had been trying to rescue since the beginning. The one person who deserved to live the most. John. "Is that why you liked him so much, because he just couldn't seem to die and you wish you could? Well guess what, because of you, he never had the luxury of a choice!"

Marcus slammed on the bars again. The whole cage rattled unsteadily. Liam flinched lightly. Mr. Bentley froze where he was, bound by the sudden spell of dark secrets flooding the room, secrets he had his suspicions about but never dared to voice. This close to the truth, one wrong move might just let hell loose across the earth, or just as terrifying, Hell Raiser. But the passions filling the room were more complicated than that. They were the raw complex workings of the human heart. Catching himself on the verge of overwhelming ire, Marcus closed his eyes and relaxed against the bars in a meditative exhale. He silently recited several of the Dojo's life lessons and teachings in an attempt to calm his fury. The room quieted with him. A few minutes later, the fighter opened his eyes and stood away from the grates. He didn't look at Liam. He didn't want to, because if he did, he would see everything he hated.

He would see John.

It didn't make sense considering they barely knew each other. Their introduction was violent, comradery brief, and farewell a combination of the two. Yet when the fires settled and John was gone, Marcus knew that something had been lost. To survive in the Underground as long as John did, seemingly unscathed in mind and spirit, proved the trainer not only incredibly lucky, but stupidly courageous. Traits befalling a student of the Cork City Dojo. Marcus finally looked over at Liam. The ace did his best to remain poised and motionless, but his eyes struggled with something that he wouldn't voice.

Maybe that's why it hurt so much?

That wobbly wimpy little trainer, John, was more of a fighter than Liam had ever been. And if he could die, so could the Ace. Liam's death wish might still be granted. Living an empty shell of a life may not have been why the Ace first showed up at the Dojo all those years ago, but it was the reason why he stayed. Cork City had a way of strengthening not just the body, but the mind and spirit. But even those sultry sands had yet to satisfy the Ace. At present, the only thing that did was the unknown. Life on the other side. Death. The thrill of skirting that gray line between realms was too intoxicating for one stuck in the middle. Marcus already felt the impact of losing John ripple through the pools of destiny. He couldn't imagine the magnitude of losing Liam. And the more he looked, the more he saw both of them in each other. They were so similar, yet so different, like two sides of the same moon. John was everything a Valenis heir was idolized to be: spirited, courageous, respectful. And Liam had everything in life except a purpose.

"Could you imagine?" Marcus pondered as he stared into the web of destiny jostling with their intertwining threads. "What that pipsqueak could've done with everything you're so willing to squander? What he could've accomplished?"

Liam's dark eyes glittered with the possibilities. Without a thousand acre estate, royal pedigree, or even a single change of clothes to his name, John had managed to spin all of them on their heels. What would happen if that haphazard trainer had it all? What would happen if Liam actually gave it to him?

More emotionally charged silence spread around the room. Mr. Bentley would have preferred the zap of the grunt's electrified baton. They all might still get it if they didn't escape soon. While the boys were playing campfire, the adults had chores to do. Mr. Bentley walked over to the cell and its contents. Although he would have liked to leave Marcus where he belonged, without their pokebelts, they would need a prisoner just as powerful as a pokemon to make it through the swarms of grunts loitering about the compound. Then again, compared to this moral dilemma they currently found themselves in, picking a lock was the least of their issues. Marcus watched Mr. Bentley as he worked. The tic-tacing of metal pins slowly etched away at his thoughts. A click finalized success. Mr. Bentley opened the door, stiff and at the ready to handle any retribution dished out because of his earlier remarks. Marcus merely stood there. His jaw chewed on far more than his words.

"What do you think?" he suddenly proposed.

Expecting more fist than philosophy, Mr. Bentley paused with a curious arch of his brow. Off to the side, Liam slowly smiled. Was this about John, their stupid decision to try and save him, Marcus' moral compass, or Liam's will to live? "For Christ's sake," Mr. Bentley sighed. They didn't have time for this. Even addicts had their limits. The grunts would be back any second. "I don't know."

"And that's why we're going to figure it out," Liam quickly answered. "Dead or alive, I intend to find John and bring him home." He looked at the two with a small tilt of his head, mischief and mystery once again returning to his smile. "But we can't do that stuck in here."

The binds around Liam's wrists suddenly dropped. The ropes around his chest and ankles quickly followed. The ace stood up with a snap of his pocket knife. Marcus and Benny looked between each other and the Ace.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Benny asked.

Liam winked at him and tucked the blade back under his sleeve. "Perks of good behavior."

Marcus didn't want to know the details. He charged out of his cell and the three reconvened in the middle of the room.

"You'd think after the mess we made they wouldn't have put us in the same room together," Mr. Bentley said with a rub of his wrists, quickly diverting his companions' attention onto the less stressing issues at hand.

"We were transferred into Sapphire's custody," Liam explained. "After all, it's her House we broke into. She isn't nearly as vigilant as our black friend with the bullets."

"Or it's because we smashed enough holes in the building to make swiss cheese," Marcus answered. "For a secret base, you'd think they would reinforce the walls or something."

"The walls are reinforced," Mr. Bentley said.

Marcus glanced around the room and shrugged.

"But they did think enough to take all of our pokemon and gear," Liam added with a lonely stroke along his waist.

"So what the hell do we do now?" Marcus grunted.

Liam stilled his hand. "What we've always done," he answered. "Pull one over on the grunts, find our friend, and rescue him."

"Because that's worked great for us so far," Mr. Bentley mumbled.

"If he's even still alive," Marcus added.

Liam glanced up with a hard look in his eye as if sliding a sword into its sheath. "John once risked his life to help me when I was a total stranger," he continued. "It would be impolite not to do the same."

Marcus frowned again. "I won't follow you on a suicide mission," he stated as flatly as his brow.

Liam quickly glanced to him in matching seriousness. "I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to trust me."

A tick worked in Marcus' jaw again. The two looked at each other until the fighter scoffed and relaxed his stance. "I guess that means you finally found something worth dying for."

"I think you mean, something worth living for," Liam corrected with a smile.

"Or someone," Mr. Bentley added. Liam and Marcus tossed him a glance. One amused, one not so much. "What?" the bodyguard shrugged. "I've never seen you two so smitten with someone since you first met."

"What do you know?" Marcus quickly dismissed. "You barely even know the kid."

"Kid? Isn't he older than you?"

Marcus grumbled something and looked away. Liam chuckled lightly. "Like him or not, we're responsible for him. Our mistakes got him into the mess so our actions will be the ones to get him out."

"And how exactly do you get someone out of a hole in the sky, or whatever the hell that was floating above the city?" Mr. Bentley asked.

Liam's eyes twinkled again. Unknown pokemon, firefights, and friends, this rescue mission was turning out to be a grand adventure after all.

"You never answered my question," Marcus cut in again, gesturing to the room around them and their lack of any and all supplies. "I understand the what, but not the how."

"That's easy," Mr. Bentley picked up. "We wait for the grunts to get back, nab their gear, and walk right out from underneath their noses."

Marcus laughed. "Like I'd fit in that uniform," he balked.

"The disguises are for us," Mr. Bentley informed. "You're the prisoner we're transporting. Just try to keep your shirt on."

Marcus quickly lost his smirk but it wasn't because of the plan. The door to the storage room suddenly swung open with the appearance of Einstein and his Fool. Both groups bristled instantly upon sight of one another.

"Look alive, folks!" Mr. Bentley yelled before the group rushed forward in a flurry of surprise, reflex, and payback. It happened too fast for words, only a little gurgling as Liam and Marcus both trapped a grunt within their arms. They looked over the discoloring faces of their captives at one another's chokehold.

"Looks like those muscles are too big and bulky for your own good," Liam commented as his grunt went limp and slumped to the floor. Seconds later, Marcus shoved his away. "You had a head start," the fighter explained.

Mr. Bentley moved in between to start collecting their gear. "Take off his boots, would ya?"

Marcus ignored him. His pride far more pressing than collecting military grade trinkets. He stabbed an accusatory finger at Liam. "Since when did you start using techniques outside of the dojo?" he asked.

"One must defend themselves," Liam shrugged as he readjusted his jacket.

"Oh, really? Then what about that time I saved your ass from those back alley gangsters? Where was all that defense then?"

"You complained all day that you needed a workout."

"Or that foreign ambassador who wanted to rub you down like a swinub skin rug?"

"I could never hit a woman."

Marcus scoffed. "So much for teaching me the ropes of pokemon battling in exchange for teaching you martial arts. You find yourself a shiny new trainer and that just makes me chop liver."

"No, it just makes you jealous," Liam corrected as he removed the grunts beret and put it on his head.

Marcus kicked aside the leg of the nearest unconscious grunt. "Like I'd be jealous of that spindly turnip," he sneered.

"A big red faced beat like you? Of course not," Mr. Bentley added. "So how about you get down here and help me? Moving this much dead weight isn't easy."

Marcus turned up a lip. "There ain't no dignity stripping a man of his clothes," he said.

Bentley rolled his eyes considering Marcus had a habit of stripping during winter and summer months alike.

"How about some privacy then?" Liam negotiated. "I'll get the door."

He hopped out of the pile, grabbed the door to close it, and lifted his chin against the tip of a knife that suddenly came underneath it. His body froze but his eyes dropped down to a set of poison covered lips. The ace slowly raised his hands in compliance. "Why hello to you too," he said.

Marcus and Bentley quickly looked up at the unexpected introduction. Two golduck and their accompanying trainers suddenly filed around the ace and into the room. They took to either side, ready to close in at the first sign of resistance. Marcus and Bentley immediately rubbed shoulders into different fighting positions. Back in the doorframe, Liam risked a smile along the edge of the knife at his throat.

"I see they've finally put out that contract on my head," he said.

Eyes lined in dark green shadow, Vermillion pinched her scowl to the sharpness of her blade. "Maybe I'm here because I just don't like you," she stated.

"I'm flattered, but I also know a Polisher doesn't walk among the riff-raff without a reason. I think you're here for something else."

Vermillion's gaze brushed over the Ace's shoulder to the men behind him.

Liam followed her thoughts. "Or _someone_ else."

Vermillion's gaze flicked between each person. She counted heads and found the group one person short. For the first time in the Ace's life, he saw the fragility of a human in those bright green eyes. It suddenly became clear. There was no way John could have survived on his own down here. Someone had to have been watching out for him. It seemed the trainer not only had an angel on his shoulder, but a devil, one in black leather and red lipstick. One that had grown as fond of him as the ace.

" _Ah_ ," Liam softly mused to himself. "So that's how he did it."

It wasn't whispered quietly enough. The Polisher pulled herself closer with a handful of the Ace's shirt and pressed the line of her switchblade across his jugular. Liam lifted his head back lightly and the edge still cut through the first layer of skin. Mr. Bentley and Marcus both started to advance. A quick stretch of the Ace's hand kept them back.

"I'm not in the mood, Valenis," Vermillion hissed.

Liam looked down at her. "But I thought you liked to play games," he said.

Vermillion's red lips parted in a vampiric snarl. She whirled around and slammed Liam into the door frame. Marcus jumped into action and immediately dropped to his knees under the weight of an _Ice Shard_ that cracked across the back of his head. Luminesce, the sneasel, perched herself on the fighter's back. One hand held a fistful of the fighter's hair. The other pressed the edge of a _slash_ across his throat. She had orders to cut all lifelines if he got any closer. Jinx and Crooks also materialized beside Mr. Bentley, ensuring his compliance with a flare of their ghostly shadows. Liam winced away his concussion and lightly held onto Vermillion's arms for stabilization. She let him only because it steadied him for the blow she planned to inflict next. Her knife flashed in the dim light only to come to an abrupt stop tip deep in cotton. Two grunts held back Vermillion's thrust from each side. They looked between her and the knife, their faces placid but their shaking arms far less composed.

"They are to remain alive," First Lieutenant Blue reminded as she walked into view. She glanced between Liam and his party members. "Or have you forgotten that you're here only because of a temporary contract?"

Vermillion didn't look at the blue coated crony or her false pretenses. She didn't even acknowledge the two men beside her. Cutter did that. The sableye darted out of the Polisher's curly red locks at gremlin inspired speed. He raced down her arm and nearly chewed through the men's hands with his razor sharp teeth. Blue's men quickly flinched out of reach before they lost a finger to his appetite. Vermillion remained motionless, holding the tip of her knife in prime position to gut the man before her. Liam winked open an eye.

"You should have a little more faith in him," he said.

"That's enough," Blue interjected. She motioned lightly with her hand and the two grunts in the room quickly took Mr. Bentley and Marcus into custody with the aid of their golduck. Vermillion pinched her fury at Liam a little tighter before she pulled her blade away with a sharp scoff through her teeth. Liam sagged against the door frame only to be lifted and secured by the elbows of the two heavy set grunts. He touched his throat, looked at the blood glistening across his fingertips, and then Vermillion. He couldn't be afraid or insulted by her actions. After all, it was that devilish ferocity that protected John when a halo could not.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," Blue interjected as she placed herself between the Ace and Polisher. "But I wouldn't get excited just yet. _They_ are waiting for you."

"And who the hell are _they_?" Marcus growled with a jiggle of rebellion against his escort. Blue glanced at him in disgust, but with enough authority to still the hand of a Polisher, she was willing to throw the dog a bone. After all, she was the only one in the room endowed with enough nobility to answer the question with the respect that it deserved.

"They," she answered. "Are the Royal Jewels."


	44. Marked for Death: 4

**Marked for Death: 4**

Unconsciousness. There wasn't much to it, just nothingness, emptiness, and complete and total apathy. Waking up from it, however, was complicated. Where am I? What happened? Who the hell took my shoes? These were just a handful of questions that came to mind when returning to the sentient world that had left you stranded in a moment long since passed. Having lived a life where unconsciousness was a near weekly occurrence, John learned not to worry about finding the answers. He appreciated the simpler things in life.

Like waking up at all.

And right now, he couldn't even do that, because relinquishing everything in and out of your control was the name of the game. While unconscious, you didn't exist. The world didn't exist. Hell, time didn't even tick by. Such a vast and distant void swallowed everything. It was stasis on the most primordial level.

So why then, did John feel so warm? Why did he even feel at all?

Not that he was complaining. He felt pretty good considering he was supposed to be dead.

The afterlife wasn't as flashy as he expected it to be. Maybe he was still alive, floating in limbo or swimming in the pinnacle of meditation. Telling the two apart was a master's work. All John knew was that he felt weightless, ethereal even. His mind drifted openly without a body to anchor him, yet unlike the flat black oblivion he was used to when unconscious, something tethered him to a point of focus in _this_ spacious nonexistence. It was warm and centered in what he could only surmise as the core of his soul since there was no physical being in this place to begin with. It gave him something to hold onto, a way to find himself in the darkness. And when he did, he was met with such gnawing hunger that it rivaled that of the insatiable void. And when it roared, it was loud enough to wake the dead.

John winked open an eye. The pit of his stomach churned with the last remains of unconsciousness, unsatisfied and begging for more than shadow and thought. He saw very little. Breaching the land of the living almost always began with a blinding burst of light. Something about lurking in those dark depths of the soul heightened the senses. Every sunray and moonbeam instantly became the flashlight of an interrogator, shining in your eyes and asking where it was you had been all this time. John still didn't have the answers. He had no idea how much time had passed, where he had ended up, or what state he was in. He only knew that it was complicated.

And warm.

John sat up, and if the light wasn't bright enough to keep his eyes closed, the sudden cloud of black dust that flew up with him took care of it. He scrunched up his nose, snorting lightly as the particles coated his face, filled his nostrils, and clung to his eyes. They were so soft and fine that wiping them away created more static cling. Only his natural bodily reactions could remove them. A few snorts and a sneeze caught the irritant with mucus. Tears removed those in his eyes. John blinked rapidly to let them run freely down his face. Blurriness gave way to redness and finally clear sight.

For the first time in what felt like forever, John looked up at the sky. Bright blue, barren of clouds, and more beautiful than anything he had ever seen, it nearly blinded him. His soft hazel eyes had become so used to the darkness of the Underground that they ached upon sight of the natural world. John forcibly retreated back onto himself where he found his body painted in fine black powder. It glittered in the sunlight with the force of a sea of tiny jewels. The microcrystals twinkled and winked at him with the shimmer of decadent makeup powder. Static cling created a fine layer along his skin. The weaker outer layer fell away when he moved his arm. Some of it washed away in a weightless puff. The rest dropped with the smokiness of sand.

Curious, John brushed some of it off to find not just bare skin underneath, but smooth skin. Skin unblemished by bruises. John quickly rubbed off more of it. His bandages were gone, disintegrated probably, and his skin was baby soft. Not a single stiff joint slowed his movements nor was there a sore muscle in his body. Other than his stomach. John quickly looked down at his chest to make sure his body was his own. For a terrible moment, he feared that his mind had wandered so far into the darkness that it had settled into someone else's body. A few pokes and prods ensured that his ribs were still perfectly in place. In fact, they were studier than a steelix.

But what about his lower half?

War books weren't without accounts of men waking up from battle to find their legs blown off. John looked down at his lap. He didn't see much of it because six inches of shimmering black powder dusted the bed of sticks he lay in better than snow. Evenly woven from twig, to branch, to tree limb, this was no random bed of kindling. It was a nest. One the size of a small bedroom and he was sitting in the middle of it. John quickly lifted a palm full of dust to eye level. This consistency and color was nearly identical to the residue found in the nests of fire type pokemon after they bathed themselves with flames for healing or cleaning purposes. Only this was on a massive scale. For a pokemon to produce this much ashy charcoal, it had to be huge, massive . . . legendary.

John scrambled to his feet. A cloud of powder followed him as he snapped and fumbled his way through the twiggy floor to the edge of the nest. One blind and well placed step stomped straight through one of the larger gaps in the floor. John fell and flipped over the raised edge. Strangely enough, he fell onto a wood floor. Disoriented, the trainer immediately popped up into a spin. The nest wasn't in a tree, but on the very top of some sort of structure built so high in the air that there was nothing but sky around him. There were no walls or ceilings just a square polished wood floor. Four thick slabs of wood created a barrier around the platform, similar to that of a fancy breakfast serving tray left by room service at a hotel.

Too think he was breakfast in bed for a VIP pokemon!

Woozy with the sudden decompression of perspective and position on the food chain, John bumped his hips against the railing. He turned around, clutched the wood as much as his sanity, and looked over the edge. A heavy wind slapped him for the effort. Caught between heaven and earth, the trainer looked out to a clear sky above and greenery below. A vast expanse of forest stretched out in all directions. Not a single break in the canopy from here to the horizon line. John looked down and realized that the platform he stood on was actually the top of a pagoda type building.

At least 54 stories high, its base disappeared within the vegetation. From there, it could have extended several stories more. One couldn't tell through the thickness of the jungle like vegetation. The tower rose out of the forest in a single turret of symmetrical perfection. Vibrant red paint acted as a skin to its body, protecting the timber within from sun and rain. Sturdy dark brown beams and brackets supported the gloss better than bone. Brightly colored tile eves separated every level, and there wasn't a single tree in the entire forest that matched the height of the elaborate pylon. It was a part of the environment as much as the materials it was made of, acting like the tape root to an ever growing tree of life. Beautifully crafted and painstakingly built, the tower stood for one purpose and one purpose only, to entice the divine to settle here on earth.

This was Ho-oh's perch.

John whirled around and put his back to the rail, grabbing it with both hands to steady himself against the skyscraper worthy breeze tossing around his hair. This was madness. Then again, he had been clinically mad for some time now. Maybe he was still in Garden Cruise Memorial's psychiatric ward, delving into recent traumas and childhood fantasies with the white coated Dr. Hannagan? John shuddered at the thought, which in turn, shook the doubt from his mind. Thinking backwards didn't help him now. This place was as real as the tattered blood soaked remains of his costume, or rather, what was left of it: black spandex shimmering with magic powder.

John paced back and forth across the floor, halfway to sort through his mind, halfway to find a way back to ground level. Panel after polished panel offered little more than an impressive array of grain patterns. There were no ladders, stairwells, or fire escapes to aid his descent, and why would there be? This tower was a tribute to a legendary pokemon. Humans weren't supposed to be up here. Pokemon were. That's how the ancients built these towers, altars, tunnels, and temples eons ago when they worshipped pokemon as gods. The only reason he was here was because Ho-oh brought him here in the first place.

But where exactly was here?

John was a man of forests and this one wasn't familiar. He couldn't think of a single textbook or pamphlet that described a landmark like this in times long past or in the present. It could only mean that Ho-oh had left Treasure Cove the same way she appeared, through a portal in the sky. It only made sense for the rainbow pokemon to use a "rainbow bridge" to travel. No wonder people believed she could fly around the world nonstop. She could fly _between_ worlds nonstop.

John pressed up against the rail again. At this height, he couldn't recognize any of the native species. It was likely he wouldn't at all, even at ground level. Acres and acres of flat and level woods, this place wasn't anywhere near his home region of Valenis. It might not even be the same continent. Was he on another planet entirely? What if this wasn't even his dimension at all? John swayed with a groan. It was bad enough getting lost in time, but space now too? Maybe it was a good thing he had been unconscious during the ride over. The human body wasn't meant for so much physical warping.

John sighed. Long and weighty, it was almost too heavy for the gusty breeze to carry off across the green ocean below. His eyes followed it to the horizon line. It wasn't as unfamiliar as he first thought it to be. In fact, overlooking a seemingly endless forest with the wind in his face put the trainer at ease. No more dim lights and dank stones of the Underground. Here, there was fresh air, sunlight, and even a spot of magic. John felt it in the soft wood underneath his fingertips. This place was endowed with something beyond anything he could ever describe or comprehend. It made him think of the ruins in the heart of the Valic Mountain Range. Both locations tingled with an otherworldly presence.

Had he been transported to the other side of that veil, or was this a time when such places were still in use? What if it were a combination of both?

John looked down at the pagoda stretching below. Unlike the ruins, the tower was anything but ancient. Flaunting bright colors and unchipped paint, it was practically brand new and not the least bit helpful explaining the space time continuum. He looked down at the rail. His hand drifted along the wood grain, tracing years of growth between his fingertips. Time travel on a much more manageable scale. If he closed he eyes, he could see his own mountains, the Valic and Champagne Ranges. They proudly spread out before him, hoisting him up on their shoulders like a parent and child at a parade, showing him just how small he was in this world. It was a shame he'd never see them again.

John smiled to himself and laughed. If he was cursed and going to die, then at least with these mysterious unexplainable happenings, his death would be epic. Aria would've surely approved. Then again. . . John stood up a little straighter and tapped the rail. He wasn't dead yet.

If you can't go back or move forward, then make a stand, and it better be a good one: Life lesson#53.

Now, where the hell did he put his feet?

John turned around. The nest took up most of the floor space. As expected of a glamour bird, it was neat and tidy. Not a branch or bundle out of place. Every fiber specifically intertwined with another. Heavy use polished the inner lining to a smooth finish. But without shelter from the elements, it wasn't a good nesting spot for tending to young. This was probably some sort of secondary home. Pidgey often used spots like this to sun themselves, and if this was indeed Ho-oh's nest, it was the perfect _roosting_ spot. With a full sun overhead and not a cloud in the sky, she could soak up more energy than all the _solar beams_ throughout history. Healing happened here, not eating.

John touched the traces of powder on his body. It still clung to his skin despite the wickedness of the wind billowing about. The nest was still full of it, tucked deep enough in the folds to avoid being blown away. Such material was more fertile than volcanic soil. Ho-oh must have _roosted_ in the nest with him underneath. Now, the tingling made sense. As a kid, John had fallen asleep in the attic of the Wicket family barn one fall morning. A sudden cold snap drove all the pidgey that usually resided there indoors. They found it more convenient to rest from their chilly flight across the mountains on top of him rather than brace the cold somewhere else. He awoke to about a dozen pidgey nestled along his body, all _roosting_ comfortably at the expense of a human's body heat.

Apparently, he wasn't as much of a threat now as he was as a child.

John could see it: his unconscious form flattened underneath the rainbow pokemon like a hatchling, forcing her to squish him back into place with every squirm of a bad dream. He blushed to think of it, although the truth was probably much less scandalous. The effects of _roosting_ when applied to a human wasn't miraculous. Equivalent to heat and acupuncture therapy, it couldn't mend broken bones, but it could calm the mind and restore the body to a natural state of balance. Thus, giving way to healing from within. Researchers utilized pokemon healing techniques in hospitals all the time. It wasn't unreasonable to think that a pokemon of a certain magnificence couldn't do the same.

Aria always said that pokemon were far more powerful than humans could ever imagine. They tapped into an energy that made the very universe spin. Those pokemon powerful enough to control it could bend the laws of nature. Or at least, that's how researchers and publishers liked to phrase it. In the ways of pokemon, they were merely more intimate with the instruction manual. For Ho-oh to remove the traces of even his most extensive of muscle cramps and bruises, just how long had he soaked in her ashes?

Did it affect his pokemon as much as him?

John quickly glanced down at the tattered remains of his Egyptian costume. His belt was still there but all of the pokeballs were gone. Either popped off in the chaos or purposefully removed, he couldn't remember. Being burned alive and pounced upon by a predator didn't leave much room for thought. John glanced around the floor and found nothing. Maybe they were still in the nest? He hurried to its edge, crawled over the dry brambles, and rolled into the ash. Navigating a bed of various sized sticks on this scale was hard enough, but covering them in a layer of ash thick enough to level the playing field to a flat surface, and it would take hours to filter through everything. If his pokeballs were even still with him. Ho-oh could also return any minute. He needed every second devoted to the search.

Time, it seemed, was never on his side.

John crawled over to the spot he woke up at and dove his hands into the black sandy like substance. Relying on touch alone, he navigated the powder down to the timber woven bottom. His fingers ran along every curve and bend, digging and pushing to make sure a pokeball had not been wedged into a furrow. The smooth round top of a pokeball tapped against his knuckle. John quickly honed in on it and lifted it to the light, not that the light actually reached it. Ash stuck to it better than fine iron shavings. The _roost_ had energized the hell out of the pokemon inside to make a pure carbon based powder stick to it better than a _magnet bomb_.

John swiped off the dust caking the middle of the ball, found the release, and pressed it. The metal scratched and flipped open. Energy flooded out. It drew the ash into itself so that the pokemon inside materialized with a dusting of shimmering powder. Charles sneezed with a furious shake of his nose. John lit up as brightly as the sun above. He couldn't have asked for a better partner in this mission. If only the linoone was paying attention. Charles dove snout first into the pool, burying his head until the tip of his tail was covered. He popped up a few feet away, squirming and rolling in the stuff harder than a Persian in catnip.

"Charles, control yourself," John coughed, waving away the sudden glittering cloud that rose up around him. It only intensified as the rushing pokemon darted over into a full body rub against his trainer. The ash was either a powerful rejuvenating serum or the most addictive pokemon drug in history. Probably a combination of both. Although John appreciated the gesture, this was hardly the time for games.

"How about you put that energy to use and help me find our friends?" John proposed as he returned to all fours and continued searching. Charles wiggled his way under the trainer's chest and head-butted him under the chin in one last rub. John grunted as the linoone's feather duster tail slapped him in the face. More powder blackened his skin. By the time he cried it free of his eyes, Charles had a minimized pokeball in his mouth. It filled John's hand seconds later. The linoone then rushed back into the nest and rooted through the powder and branches three times as fast as John's fumbling fingers. A puff of powder later and all party pokemon were present and accounted for. John released them one by one just to make sure.

Marco and Athena took to the tower as if it were made for them. They even made it a point to dust themselves in a charcoal bath like their four legged counterpart. Feathers glossed and chirps sharp, they showed no signs of physical injury or discomfort. Marco even lost the trembling in his wing where Trapinch had broken it. Saul took to the nest like any snake would. He searched it out, breaking and biting at sticks that bumped into him the wrong way. Eventually, he coiled around his prized egg and manservant, as tightly as allowed. John sat within the arbok's coils. He wiped off the last bit of dust from the friend ball in his hands. Spit removed most of the ash but left a gray smear behind that would probably never come out given its origin. Luckily, a matte finish on pokeballs was in style these days.

John rubbed a thumb over the dark green shell. The last time he saw Lopo, the houndoom nearly bled to death in his lap. He'd never forget the look in the canine's eyes, nor how close his heart had come to breaking. Night terrors were made of weaker visions. Now, he'd sweat during the day and at night. In winter and in summer, always thinking it was blood. But in the end, Lopo chose to stay, and this would be his first release as a true member of the party. John lowered the ball and stood up within the stack of coils. Saul's head rose with him, mouth open in a disapproving hiss.

John gently grabbed a fang and used it to steady himself as he climbed out of the fortress of scales. When clear, he released the cobra's bluff. Saul quickly closed his mouth with a glare and roughly shoved John in the back. The trainer stumbled, caught his balance, turned around, and waited for permission. Saul snorted, accepting the trainer's requested leave of absence. He then turned away and recoiled into a new position, making sure to spit at the linoone who rushed by in another powder stimulated frenzy.

With a shake of the head, John turned away. He carefully picked his way to the edge of the nest, put a hand on it, and hopped out. He landed lightly. The gentle tap of bare feet on polished wood brought back memories of Cork City Dojo. Whispers of a quieter and simpler time echoed in John's ears. He looked at the pokeball balanced between his two hands, reading it as if it were his favorite book. Would he open it to find a houndoom as lively as the rest of his party, or a canine broken and battered with the traumas of his past? If John let him out, would it endanger the canine's life? If a promise was made on a death bed, was it still valid in the land of the living?

There was only one way to find out.

John pressed the release. It clicked and the ball opened. The energy inside did not rocket, rush, spill, or flare. Instead, it spiraled down with the smooth rolling twist of a candle flame. The energy cooled in its descent, silently turning into a black thread that quickly scattered into a million wispy strands. They wound their way into solid form, clouding the pokemon's features until a gust carried them away. A small jingle of metal filled the air. It announced the presence of a long awaited revival.

A houndoom stood in front of John, head lifted and paws poised with the grace of a ballet dancer. His coat was smooth, shiny, and glossy with the exception of a scar on his neck. Healed, healthy, and with both eyes carefully placed on the trainer in front of him, he didn't announce his arrival. His tail flicked lightly. It was a small indication to his thoughts since his dark eyes kept out everything except a small twinkle.

John held his breath.

The houndoom before him wasn't just another canine. This was Lopo, _the_ darkness pokemon. Blacker than night and equipped with armor steeled by starlight, he mastered shadows, adopted invisibility, and came when called, even in the daylight. Cracks filled his horns. Pieces had chipped away. A hound past his prime, he was weary and worn with loyalty and love. This was a pokemon forged by a Ranger. This was the best friend John had not seen since he left Boulder two years ago. The trainer couldn't find words powerful enough to express how much he missed the canine, so he didn't speak. He dropped to his knees and threw himself around the houndoom's neck. Lopo staggered lightly but John only squeezed tighter. His strength kept the canine from falling.

 _Oh, Lopo, I love you so much_.

The words were not spoken, yet the houndoom still heard them as clear as if Aria had conveyed them across the universe herself. He didn't know how, but John had just stumbled through a barrier broken only by Pokemon Rangers. Maybe it was because of this place beyond space and time or that the trainer had been marked by a legendary pokemon, but that didn't matter. The message came from the heart, and Lopo was happy he could hear it at all. He closed his eyes, laid his head over John's shoulder, and returned the embrace.

If only it could last forever.

Lopo suddenly perked his ears. They swiveled forward, catching something in the air. He opened his eyes and quickly lifted his head. Reading the signal, John withdrew and looked up to the pidgeotto hastening their flight patterns above. They chirped and thrilled in alarm. A spot formed on the horizon. It was still several miles away and growing larger, quickly. Ho-oh. She had finally returned. Their time was up. Anticipation spurred John into action. It wasn't the first time he stumbled into a hovel belonging to a dangerous pokemon. She was also the one who brought him here in the first place.

Still, a smidgen of doubt tugged John's gaze from the horizon to the top of the tower. He never found bones of her other supposed victims. It was also possible Ho-oh just didn't leave any crumbs behind. Many pokemon were known to bring their kills back to their dens for eating. No. Ho-oh wouldn't eat him. She went through all the trouble just to heal him. Some people also liked to glaze a honey ham before roasting it. Either way, returning home to two strange birds in the air and a snake in the nest would put any pokemon on the offensive. John quickly withdrew his party and fastened them on his belt, all the while keeping an eye on the growing dot on the horizon. The good thing about seeing the enemy coming was that it gave one plenty of time to prepare.

That was, if the enemy didn't instantly vanish faster than the pop of a balloon.

The resulting rush struck John from behind. Several pounding waves of hair threw him to the floor as a rainbow bridge suddenly opened next to the tower. Ho-oh flew through it and landed on the railing. She unleashed a screech that rang across the forest. John kept his chest to the floor and covered his ears. When the call faded, he whirled around onto his back. Ho-oh kept her wings extended. They arched to shade the entire top of the tower. She readjusted her grip on the rail. Her talons alone capable of impaling his chest. Another shriek set John's blood racing. He quickly took his heart in his hand and stood to meet her in the same manner he intended to back at the business tower. Face to face.

Ho-oh clapped her beak and turned her head for a better look at him. The motion revealed a long tuft of golden feathers that streaked backward from the crest on her head. They were probably worth more than a whole pallet of premium gold bars, but that's not why John liked them. There was a curl at the very end where the heat of the pokemon's body forced them over and onto themselves. The longer they grew, the more pronounced the curl.

Legendary pokemon weren't known to have a gender, mostly because their existence was usually no more than a myth, but if rainbow pokemon were anything like most bird species, males had more plumage than females. Ho-oh only had a slim line of crest feathers. One was so long that it arched down her back to a point where the heat couldn't reach. It matched the stiff angular feathers on her tail shaped like an arrowhead. Flying through high winds and storm clouds molded those feathers, not flirting and flaunting about. John pegged her as a female, if only to familiarize himself with his _roosting_ partner.

Ho-oh lightly hopped down from the rail onto the nest. She tucked in her wings and leaned in closer to John. Common sense begged him to put distance between them. Curiosity teased him to get closer. Experience kept him still, even as the smooth curved beak came up and nudged his chest. She did it again, a little harder this time. Reflex lifted John's arms lightly. Ho-oh dove in and pushed him by the armpit, then the other, raising his arms even higher and forcing him into a back step. John chuckled out a smile only because he had no idea what the rainbow pokemon wanted from him. It felt like he was being frisked. Whatever Ho-oh was looking for, she must have found it because her prodding turned into pushing.

Did she truly intend to eat him or just push him around on her plate?

With all limbs still attached, John pressed his hands against the beak that came at his side again. Ho-oh wanted him to go somewhere. "Hey now, there's not much room up here," he explained. John pinpointed the destination when he bumped into the railing. He swayed to a stop against it, looked down at the depth defying drop, and slowly looked back at Ho-oh. She took a step back, cocked her head, and waited for him to go the rest of the way himself. From breakfast to egg, then hatchling, and now fledging, John had flown through the stages of life as fast as he did time and space.

"I don't think you understand," he quickly stuttered. Ho-oh squawked and stepped closer. She turned down her beak and pressed against the trainer's chest with her head. Squeezed between life and limb, John pressed his back against the rail and his arms against her golden crown. He used every ounce of strength to keep his feet on solid ground.

"I have your fire," John grunted. His knees and back bent. "Not your wings!" Ho-oh stepped forward, lifted her beak, and flipped him over the rail. John disappeared over the edge with a squeak.

So this was it? This was how he would die, falling to his death from a tower in the middle of the woods of an uncharted world. John spread out his arms and righted himself to speed for the canopy face first. Falling wasn't so bad. It kinda felt like flying, and at least, he had the pride to say that he didn't trip over the edge. A scarlet feathered back came up beside him. Her back was big enough to offer safe passage should he be brave enough to reach out and take it.

Why the hell not? He was a pokemon rider after all.

John reached out his hand. Ho-oh immediately came underneath it and he latched onto the feathers moments before a gusty surge of air redirected their fall. Ho-oh lifted upwards in a ferocious beat of her wings, kicking back the canopy and rising into the air. Several more beats leveled her into a low glide above the forest. John now understood what happened to all of those other people spirited away by the rainbow pokemon throughout history. Those not burned alive by the mark were thrown off the tower to their doom. He clung to her back, unsure if he was terrified or insane. Not many people would demand obedience from a demi-god and here he was riding on the back of one.

Maybe that's why he reached out to her so easily? Take away the superstition, shock, and disbelief, and there was only a pokemon and its charge. Riding fundamentals were the same no matter the medium underneath, and if he didn't get into a better position fast, the wind streaming over Ho-oh's back would wrench him out of position. Riding. That's all this was, and he had learned to ride from a Ranger. Think with the heart, not the mind: Ranger Rule #1.

John readied himself with several preparatory huffs, raised his head, and crawled higher onto the rainbow pokemon's back. He slid his arms above her shoulder blades and raised his hips as if to ride an arcanine at full sprint. Wind streamlined through his hair, whipping it hard and fast. Each push and slap of air helped him adjust into proper position, and soon, he was nothing more than another vertebra on the back of a giant. John wished he had a pair of goggles. Luckily, with the golden crown acting as a wind shield, he could looked out into the world beyond without flinging tears. It streamed by in an even blue and green division. A smile spread across his face. This time, he was truly flying, and conscious enough to enjoy it.

Being cursed was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Ho-oh turned her head slightly as if to glance back at him. The trainer relaxed into flawless form and became practically weightless on her back. She watched him a little longer, softened into a gentle glide, and skimmed the treetops for a while. When her wings were properly warmed, they rose higher into the sky. John lifted lightly. At this height, he could look out into the world that had so unexpectedly adopted him. Miles upon miles of vibrant flora streamed below them. Never before had he seen such a vast expanse of life. It ended only with the silhouette of distant mountains. Snowcapped peaks drifted across the sky, serving as clouds when there were none to be had. The dim white reflection of a distant planet hovering within orbit floated above them.

John laughed lightly. It sounded like the chirp of a flock of bird pokemon that suddenly came up around the pair, hoping to catch a ride on the wake of the rainbow pokemon's wings. They floated like a flock of wingull, but they were much more flamboyant than sea birds. They had white bodies and multicolored feathers on the tips of their wings and tails. Colors interlocked like the keys of a piano. The birds must have never seen a human before because they flew right up alongside John, looking at him as curiously as he did them.

Ho-oh squawked in annoyance, and when the visitors drifted closer around the human, she gave an extra hard flap to shoo them away. One quickly chirped its disapproval. In response, a dozen more voices rose together in a symphony of chimes, but the flock eventually turned away and their music faded. John watched them leave. From behind, their feathers lost their color to a crystal like translucence that twinkled lightly. In a flock, the display was somewhat disorienting, most likely a defensive mechanism against predators. But from here, they almost looked like stars. Stars to a nightless planet.

Not to be outdone, Ho-oh's feathers suddenly rippled with color. A flash struck John without warning, leaving spots and stars in his eyes of as many colors as the pokemon he rode upon. At first, the trainer thought himself blind. The world had darkened immediately afterwards. But it wasn't his sight that had changed, but the landscape. They had traveled through a rainbow bridge into another world. Now, a dark royal blue sky laid heavily on the horizon. Deep purples and faded pinks clouded a sunrise just now cresting a roaring ocean line. Tall jagged cliffs lined the beach below, protecting the rocky landscape from the salty sprays of the ocean. The air was cool with dawn, yet when aimed at the sun, one couldn't help but warm themselves with the thought of a day starting beautiful enough to transcend reality. When John looked upon it, he felt that even with his dismal luck, he would be OK.

Ho-oh's feathers warmed again. John heeded the warning and closed his eyes. Even without sight, he felt the change. Air pressure lifted, the temperature dropped, and the world quieted down to crickets. Skin chilling and hair tingling, John quickly fluttered open his eyes. They had passed through another portal and into yet another new world.

To the untrained eye, they flew into darkness, but John knew better than that. They flew not into a void, but into night under the shade of a mountain. Stars frosted the sky. A millennia of mystery swirled cloudy fingers into the galaxies up above. Distant celestial storms flecked the universe with purple and blue. No moons, no clouds, just an open night sky with eons of creation dancing within. This horizon line was different than the other two. It was high and jagged where the pitch black shadows of mountains seemingly ripped off the bottom of the sky. Sleek darkness sloped down their faces. It brightened with starlight unpolluted by man and illuminated the land below. Forests filled the valleys. Their voluptuous canopies shimmered in the light breeze kissing them goodnight.

John's heart fluttered with them. The twinkling cosmos was much more embellished and the mountain peaks weren't quite right, but this range felt familiar to him. It reminded him of the skyline in Boulder. It felt like home.

Ho-oh gently banked into a long and wide valley. She slowly descended towards a spot deep within the back of the forest. She must have been there before because she searched none and adjusted little. A group of mountains rose up together in front of them like a protective barrier. They huddled together shields and spears drawn, waiting to see if pokemon and rider were worthy of admittance into their folds. John acknowledge their watchful stares with one of his own and neither avalanche nor mudslide descended.

Beyond, the stars grew farther from sight, yet their light only seemed to shine brighter as they landed in a large clearing. Trees lined the edges. So wide and long were their trunks that the great beat of Ho-oh's wings did little more than agitate their leaves. Their branches caught starlight and created a network of constellations in their boughs. John always knew mountains to be awe inspiring things, but never before had he seen a Range so powerful as to keep a galaxy in its pocket. He slipped off of Ho-oh's back, ducked under her wings, and trotted to a stop just a few feet away. Grass as thick as cotton threads hugged his feet in greeting. Their smooth blades cooled his skin, and whatever they couldn't reach, the valley wind took over. It stroked breezy fingers through his hair and extended a gentle hand for him to take.

A temple had been constructed in the clearing. Pillars guided visitors down a path in the grass to a floor made out of bedrock. It was as if the mountain itself had lifted out of the earth to provide the foundation to this sacred place. Glittering minerals within captured the celestial twinkle of the stars above. The path lead up to a raised altar carved out of stone and crusted with every glittering ore known, and unknown, to man. Engravings covered every surface. Stories of legend and creation danced from pillar to pillar. Exquisite detail reached from every keystone to cast-off pebble, leaving nothing to the imagination and everything to genius. Native plant life swooned between arches and walkways better than scholars and their muses. Small glowing dots of green light floated within the clearing. They drifted over and around the architecture as testaments to the energy buzzing within. Several twirled excitedly after being displaced by Ho-oh's entrance. They lit up the shadows of the great stone monuments where the starlight couldn't' reach. The language of the ancients glowed in an alphabet of runes with every passing speck.

Fairies. That's what Aria once called them.

John raised his hand and cradled one of the tiny balls of magic in his hand. It hovered over his palm, softly drifting its way closer to his fingers, shifting with the slightest movement until it floated up and out like many of the others quietly ascending into the night. These were the very same ruins John had used to leap through time. He was sure of it. Only, they weren't ruined. They were young and alive. They were his gateway home.

The glowing green fairies shifted in excitement. They bobbed around John as he walked the path towards the temple. Runes pulsated at his passing in a similar light belonging to the fairies. The deeper he went, the brighter they glowed. He studied each pillar, noticing how each was like the mountain peaks around it, grounded yet powerful enough to hold up the universe. Fairies danced lightly along with him, learning how to waltz from his two step and filling the clearing with vigor and motion. Ho-oh watched intently but remained where she was. After all, this temple didn't belong to her.

John laughed again, finding new treasures and components to the "ruins" he never knew existed in its worn and weary state. Offerings, tributes, and decorations, he couldn't tell which was which. He only knew that a pile of purposefully stacked stones in the corner had grown in size and assortment. John carefully squatted down next to it. A fairy floated close to his cheek, illuminating it in a cool glow. Yes. This was definitely the spot. Celebi had not only been here, but she frequented it often. She would return, and although the _silver wing_ was gone, there was another just as powerful to take its place. Ho-oh herself could activate the gate. She could send him through time to his proper place, right here, right now, and there would be no more risk to the future.

John stood up again, reeling from a hope he had abandoned to fantasy. He was at the ruins. He had a _wing_ of legend. Dimensional pressure thickened the air with energy all around him. All he had to do was wait for Celebi to show. John slowly spun to a stop in front of the altar. He could finally go home. He could finally leave contract killers, Royal Jewels, and Blood Aces behind. . . But then again, that also meant Polishers.

Trainers and fighters.

Liam and Marcus.

The few he called friends.

John's chin dropped lightly, followed by the corners of his smile. Would it really be OK leaving them behind like this? In doing this, did he break one of the most precious rules of the Ranger code? Ho-oh watched him quietly, as did the other few pokemon awakened by their appearance. They peeked behind the branches of the trees as curiously as the stars above. Even the mountains murmured in keen observance of the silent debate. Would he stay or would he go?

John clenched his hands into fists. Marcus and Liam were the strongest trainers in the League, possibly their entire generation. Both were considered Pokemon Masters. A few grunts and barbed wire weren't enough to stop them, especially in their prime. The trainer took a step closer to the foot of the altar. His eyes were forward yet his thoughts only grew farther back. But what if they didn't make it out? What if a Polisher showed up like the one in the Cage and had a contract to kill them? What if that Polisher was Vermillion? No longer just friend against foe but friend against friend. What if they didn't know the difference? What if he went back and ended up being the reason for the deaths of some of the greatest trainers in history? John's foot stopped on the first step of the platform.

Was the future safe because he left or because he stayed?

John looked back over his shoulder at Ho-oh. She remained as poised and perfect as the wooden statues carved of her on top of the high temples in the east. Without the help of a legendary pokemon, he wouldn't be able to find this place again. The only reason he had a decision to make at all was because of her. To leave without acknowledging that was more dreadful than any botched plan to save the future. John stepped off of the altar and walked back through the pillars. Ho-oh straightened ever so slightly upon his return, shifting her head like a god turning an ear to a peasant thinking: Had the human finally come to a decision?

John stopped in front of the rainbow pokemon and looked up at her. Admiration, awe, and a twinge of sadness sparkled in his eye. Clearly, she wasn't here to kill him, and even if this was some elaborate ruse, John intended to thank her for everything he had experienced in her care. And there was only one way he knew how. The trainer reached out and placed a hand on her chest. It was a quiet gesture, one louder than any other act of heroism in history. A flame sparked as they touched, but John didn't pull his hand away. He channeled the warmth into a blazing glove that crackled and softened into a sheath of multicolored energy around his hand. It glowed like a _force palm_. Warmth filled their bodies from toenail to hair tip. Light softly radiated from within, causing the mountains to lift in a gasp as they finally understood who it was that had visited them so unpredictably this night.

The glow faded and John opened his eyes. He finally understood what it was that had happened to him down in Onyx's gallery. When he touched the _rainbow wing_ , he didn't steal Ho-oh's flames. He had summoned them. Onyx was wrong. When the rainbow pokemon had ripped open the sky, she wasn't searching for her mark, she was searching for her Champion. One with a soul that burned as fiercely as her own. Her mark wasn't a curse. It also wasn't a chance for a human to think themselves capable of taming a legend.

This strange and unthinkable meeting between them was simply the answer to a call. A pokemon like this granted one wish and one wish only to its Champion in their most dire hour of need. John scoffed and tapped his forehead against the great golden beak.

"Why would you ever pick a poor excuse of a trainer like me?" he whispered. Ho-oh answered by nuzzling her beak against his cheek, forcing out a chuckle that set the trainer upright again. Not that he needed to be reminded of who he was or what he had to do. John stood tall enough to spur the rainbow pokemon into a similar position. They looked at one another straight through the eye and into their matching souls.

"I have a favor to ask," John exclaimed with a stroke of the pokemon's beak.

There were no Life Lessons or Ranger Rules for this one.

Only a Champion's choice.


	45. Marked for Death: 5

**Marked for Death: 5**

" _Marche Funebre_ " Piano Sonata No.2 in B flat minor: better known as the "Funeral March".

Every grunt knew it by heart. They didn't have to be educated in the classics or versed in compositions to recognize it, only live long enough in the Underground to know when somebody wasn't coming back alive. Those heavy solemn notes once again tolled as a group of people walked through the basement of the Cage House. Grunts paused to watch. There was nothing like the drum roll of an execution to stop one dead in their tracks. With a 1st lieutenant leading the way, a Polisher following behind, and an armed guard in between, it was the most reverend of death marches.

Pure and absolute.

They were on their way to the Showcase. It was the only room suited to hold such an occasion. It had been a while since the entire Collection of Royal Jewels had been summoned together, but territorial lines had been crossed. Some, obliterated all together. A deal had been broken and the condemned were on their way to the chopping block. Their trespasses punishable as war crimes.

Vermillion wasn't in the mood for a trial. A firing squad, maybe. She'd prefer a single bullet to the back of the head. The Polisher' aimed her glare with sniper's precision at the platinum blonde in the middle of the group. Hands zip-tied and head up, Liam rode the black parade like a god damn rose float. He could've winked at passing grunts and found favor with them. His two cohorts followed behind, staying in line only because of the swift confidence skating out before them.

" _You should have a little more faith_ " Vermillion silently mocked, quoting the words Liam had said to her in the hallway. A bitter expression of scorn curled her lip. Faith? She'd give him faith. She'd give him a whole damn crucifixion. What the hell did a spoiled brat know about religion or humanity here on earth? Vermillion bit her tongue. Apparently, he knew a hell of a lot more than she did. He was actually in the Cage House when everything went down. Unlike herself. Bits of gossip and hearsay were all she had to go on. Filtering through the bullshit took a sharp sense of smell, and even then, there wasn't much to work with. All Vermillion knew for certain was that 66 had replaced "Crocodile", Pharaoh's original intended battle partner, at the last minute before the match. Gunfire ensued, and _voila_ , here they were, one man short and half a district burned to the ground. She could only assume 66's contract had been fulfilled. There was no other explanation for John's absence. Someone had mentioned a flaming flying dinosaur but that's where common sense drew the line. The B.A. was dead, one way or another. As predicted, Onyx had gotten everything she wanted.

Sticking around to watch it all play out wouldn't have changed anything. No one escaped the Black Jewel's hook.

Vermillion plumped her silky red lips into a frown. Things used to be so simple. Kill him. Steal that. Burn this. Had she left that hapless John Doe alone from the very beginning then maybe shit wouldn't have hit the fan better than a Pollock painting.

" _Have a little faith_ ," she quoted again. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That John had escaped and was still alive? Christ, then he really would have risen from the dead.

First Lieutenant Blue stopped in front of the doors leading into the Showcase auditorium. Two grunts opened the doors, one on either side. Second Lieutenant Giles waited for them inside. He attempted to lead the group into a dark hallway but Liam practically carried himself inside on a throne. Mr. Bentley quietly inspected the door locks and hinges on his way by while Marcus leaned through his armed escort towards the lieutenant.

"Shoulda kept runnin' while ya had the chance," he threatened. Giles instantly paled. One whack across the back of the head put the fighter in line. He growled and disappeared into the shadows with two golduck walking close behind. Vermillion brought in the rear, but before she could enter, Blue shifted in front of her. The Polisher stopped with a pinch of her eyes.

"Get out of the way," she demanded.

"Sorry, but this meeting is private," Blue informed.

"I have a contract," Vermillion reminded.

"Consider it fulfilled."

"Not just with Sapphire."

With the mere mention of the black handed Jewel, Blue puffed out her chest.

"Your contract is as dead as the trainer that bound you to it," she quickly said before she grabbed a door in each hand and slammed them shut. A loud bang punctuated the statement. The breeze of its closing tossed Vermillion's hair. A series of clacks and clicks further emphasized the point. Bright white fangs drew blood from the Polisher's lips. They disappeared quickly, however, with only wood and brass to sink into. Although Vermillion hated to admit it, Blue was right. A hand for hire, bloody as it may be, had no business with a bunch of House party crashers. This was a domestic problem, not something to be contracted out. John may have been associated with Liam and the others at one point in his short life, but he wasn't in the picture anymore, and no one knew of his connection to Liam.

Except Vermillion.

And she never did anything without getting paid. If they didn't want her information, she was happy to keep it to herself. Besides, a Showcase full of Jewels didn't care about a Blood Ace long since exsanguinated. Neither should a Polisher. Vermillion leaned with seductive force onto one hip. She would find out what happened behind those doors eventually. Jewels without Polishers were nothing but uncut unclean lumps of ore. The contracts to come would give everything away. The only thing Blue accomplished was painting a bright red "X" across her back. Vermillion lifted two fingers at the door in the shape of a gun and silently pulled the trigger. She softly blew away the smoke.

Her business here was finished.

Simple. Clean. Done.

Vermillion slowly lowered her hand.

Everything was back to normal. Just like she wanted.

So why the hell was she still standing in front of this door?

It's not like she cared about the people inside. Grunts, guards, lieutenants, and bosses, they all bled the same at the tip of her switchblade. Liam Valenis had this coming. Vermillion couldn't even remember the names of the other two. So what if they knew John at one point or another. She'd carry them to hell in a handbasket if asked. She'd even tie a pretty ribbon in her hair and skip along the yellow brick road. They didn't seem to care much about Pharaoh's fate when leaving the club the other night.

So why did she?

Vermillion looked at the dark stained wood in front of her. Heavy and thick, the doors sat with the weight of an old possessed house. It wasn't the people inside that disturbed her, but the phantom haunting the auction hall beyond. Vermillion stared into the wood. She stared through the glass of the Showcase and the memory of a bandaged trainer idiotically smiling at her without a clue that his soul had been sold to the devil. Is that why John haunted this place, haunted her? Because he had been innocent?

Vermillion snapped two pokeballs off of her belt. Exorcising John's ghost might be the only way to return her life to normal. She rolled them into enlargement and her two gastly, Crooks and Jinx, materialized in a blackish purple sigh. If she was going to play with ghosts, she might as well bring her own along. Vermillion's bright green eyes flashed with an otherworldly reflection.

If she was going to break some rules, she might as well break a few bones in the process.


	46. Marked for Death: 6

**Marked for Death: 6**

"Why the hell are we still alive?" Marcus demanded.

It was a good question, one no one could find a good answer too.

"And what're they tryin' to accomplish, stickin' us in a box like this?" The fighter glanced around the white walled room. No furniture, seams, or any means of escape from corner to corner. It was cramped, creepy, and highly sterilized. The fighter clenched and unclenched his fists. He was sweatier than normal and stunk up the room faster than his claustrophobia.

"That's because it's not a box," Mr. Bentley corrected. He went around the room tapping certain parts of the wall with his foot. "It's an auction block. And there's a door, you just can't pass through it." Benny glanced at the curved mirror like glass that made up the far wall. "There's also a window, but you can't see through it either."

"And you get on my case about philosophical bullshit."

Mr. Bentley chuckled lightly. "Try not to think about it too much, you might just hurt yourself."

Marcus rattled off a few more complaints and eventually they quieted into muttering. Several curses dribbled in between. Liam smirked at their originality. The fighter was doing relatively well considering he was used to much more spacious fresh air settings. Given time, he might even simmer down to simple discontent. The fact that they had any time at all was a miracle. Liam carefully leaned onto the glass wall at the front of the Showcase. Although the world was dim and dark looking out, it wasn't the same looking in. They were being watched, judged, and convicted. Punishment pending. Someone was out there, monitoring their every move in HD precision. Liam shifted lightly. At this angle, he could avoid the glaring reflection of the tinted glass and look into the atrium. The forms were shadowy and dark, but they were still there. The Royal Jewels were there.

Four of the cubicles on the rearmost viewing platform were occupied, each separated by two empty booths on each side. The spot at center right glinted with gold, even through the glass. That must be Boss Ruby and the twins. Jesse and Quill stood on either side of the auctioning throne inside the booth posed as bronze lions. A large red "R" was painted on a small black tapestry in the background. And if Ruby was there, you could count on Sapphire to pose as his reflection. At center left, small framed and doused in royal blue, Sapphire sat in a wooden chair that looked too big for her. Her hair was long and slightly curled, threaded in ribbon that reached down to her knees. Baby smooth skin glossed her features to doll like proportions. Those same features were exaggerated in her younger sister, Aquamarine, who sat at her feet, clinging to her legs with the swoon of a mermaid. And not the whimsical kind either.

On the far left, Jade preferred the company of pokemon over people, even over her own lieutenants. She filled her chair to maximum capacity. Heavy makeup shadowed her eyes and a top not kept loose strands of hair from her face. She was by far, the oldest of the Jewels, in practice and physique. At one time, she was probably the crown Jewel of the pleasure district. Now, she ran it with opioids, taboos, and every fantasy known to pokemon and man. Jade quietly stroked the ralts in her lap and smoked a pipe too long for beginners. A kirlia and gardevoir floated around them within the smoke.

That left Onyx and her mightyena on the far side. Liam couldn't see them in the shadows but he knew they were there. They always were. And there was no way the captain of Treasure Cove was going to leave him unattended after brokering the deal that let him back into the Houses in the first place. All Royal Jewels were now present. Every curtain along the back row of booths was pulled back for full disclosure. No assassins in the wings today.

Just business.

Liam kept his back and shoulder aimed at the glass. He didn't want to reveal his exploratory stare. No need to alert the audience that he was aware of their presence. The more arrogant and unaware he seemed, the better. Gathering the entire Collection in one place was quite the accomplishment, one the Ace would be duly proud of, if he wasn't the one on display. Liam turned his cheek away from the glass. Marcus paced the room in stretches and physical warm ups, preparing for the fight to come. It was the fighter's way of coping with Karma's backlash. Knowing every detail of their execution was Liam's. The Royal Jewels wouldn't let them go without a price. If they were lucky, they might get off with a couple billion in extortion of the Valenis family fortune. If they weren't, then they would _all_ wish that they were dead.

At least, John didn't have to suffer more punishment because of it.

As if tapping into the beyond, the overhead light suddenly flickered. Mr. Bentley glanced up and around for a faulty wire. Marcus turned to the door as if someone was about to come through it and Liam lifted his chin from his thumb. The lights flickered again. Not enough to shade them in darkness but enough to raise their suspicions. After all, the room was recently renovated. Fresh paint, unblemished glass, and bright fluorescent light, there shouldn't be anything defective down to the very last nail. Something flickered again and it wasn't the light. Liam quickly glanced to the side. For a second, he swore he saw something float through the wall. It almost looked like the shadow of a gastly. A scratch broke through the intercom built into the room. Voices leading a heated conversation crackled through.

"So what are we going to do with them?" the first began.

"Bring them to the back, put them on the wall, and I've got three very clean and well executed answers."

"Like's there's anything clean about your work," a third retorted. "You leave garbage floating in the river for the whole world to see."

"How dare you accuse me, you tawny bitch-"

Those voices, they belonged to the Royal Jewels! They had to. There was no one else inside the auditorium, and judging from the colorful word choice, they didn't know the intercom was on. Liam didn't move. Looking around like the others would only draw unwanted attention and possibly alert the Collection of the intrusion. He couldn't risk losing the chance to eavesdrop on the most powerful crime lords in the city. Was it an accident on their handler's part, or was someone else watching beyond the glass? Whatever the reason, Liam wasn't going to waste it. He listened intently with the others:

"I don't see what the problem is," Ruby began again. Nobody else carried that much resentment.

"Killing is easy. Cleaning up afterwards is the problem," the intercom scratched and the voice remained anonymous. "The police can only ignore so much."

"Measures can be taken." Spoken cold and flat like a fish, Sapphire had no sympathy for Cage breakers.

"I don't have a problem with those two," the third voice explained. "It's that fucker in the middle that worries me."

Mr. Bentley snorted back a laugh. He not only caught the reference to the celebrity ace standing at the glass, but appreciated it, because now he wasn't the only one who recognized the pain in the ass that was Liam Valenis.

"Let's just throw him in the back with the others," Ruby groaned.

"This is a _Valenis_ we're talking about. If he goes missing, even in this city, people will start asking questions." Liam finally pegged the voice. It was Jade of the Pleasure District. Navigating scandal involving senators and dignitaries was her specialty. She also had a soft spot for celebrities, especially ones that could charm the shells off of a gorebyss.

"You must be out of your mind to think I'd let him and his pet go after double crossing me twice!" Ruby shouted with a slam of his fist on the small refreshment stand.

"I ain't nobody's pet!" Marcus snarled back.

Mr. Bentley cautiously raised a hand to quiet the outburst. They'd get caught red handed if they reacted with timely precision to every comment. Luckily, their audience had turned off the volume earlier during Marcus' rants. At least, they were good for something. "Now, now, I'm sure Liam feeds you on a regular basis and gives you plenty of toys," he said, "but a bath every once in a while might do us all some good."

Marcus turned to him with a sour eye but it was Sapphire who crackled in over the intercom.

"Nobody is going anywhere," she explained. "I'll make sure that bastard pays for what he's done to my House!"

"Let me remind you that there is a lot of money and influence that goes into keeping this place out of public eye," Jade exclaimed. "Mess that up, and we're all fucked."

"You're fucked anyway. It's your job isn't it?" Sapphire jabbed.

Jade blew a long colorful cloud of smoke and tapped the ashes from her pipe, never once glancing away from the navy blue ribbon.

"It'll be difficult, and we may have to go dark for a while, but I'll make it work," Ruby plotted as he tapped a thick finger against the wood.

Liam quietly shook his head. Politics, politics, politics. Even in the criminal world they made progress difficult. Liam got as far as he did because of their squabbling. It chewed away at their defenses better than acid in a bathtub. Who better to fill those holes of discontent than the sweet talking thrill seeking indulgent regional billionaire? With a little more bickering, the ace and company might just make it home for dinner.

"Fine, if you want to kill him so much, you can have him," Sapphire huffed. "But that means he was your baby to begin with and you'll take responsibility for the damages done to my House."

"Like hell I will," Ruby woofed.

Sapphire sat a little straighter in her chair and stroked her baby sister's head. "Then I'm not going into hiding because you won't clean up your mess."

"My mess? Your poor security couldn't even handle a little crowd control. You're the one that let it get so out of control!"

"I suppose you didn't sign the contract for 66 either, then?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Jade quickly glanced to the far right corner of the room but didn't let her eyes linger there. She quickly corralled the bravado and blame before it careened towards unforgivable insult. "Both of you are out of your league," Jade interrupted. "These three have already proven to be too wild to be contained by either House. You're best option is to hand them over to me."

"Yeah, I'm sure you'd make a pretty penny with that lot," Ruby snapped. "But what about the damage they've done?"

"The sales will be more than enough to cover the damages," Jade explained. "I'll even make sure each of you receives a settlement for your pain and suffering." She took a long pull of her pipe and looked into the showcase, directly at Liam. It took everything in the Ace's arsenal not to look at her. Being sold to the chains and whips of the Pleasure District was a worse fate than the gutter water and brass knuckles of Ruby's thugs. Doused in drugs and tranquilizers, there would be no end to the torture and torment of the young and beautiful. Jade's houses were known for their seductively secret success. Even Ruby quieted with the proposition. Sapphire's baby sister puffed up her cheeks but the Blue Jewel said nothing because it was a proposition that might just work.

"Do you think a simple change of hands is going to work?" a new voice cut in.

It rode the frequency of the intercom with an air of malice so vile that there was no amount of bullshit, excuses, or manipulation Liam could come up with to negate it. He turned his eyes to the shaded corner of the room. He didn't forget that the Black Jewel was there. No one did. They were all just too afraid to look at her. Onyx slowly stepped out of the darkness. Dried blood still speckled her cheek where she never bothered to wipe it away. Her glasses were gone. One eye, now partially blinded, had clouded with scarification. The other used a contact lens to pinpoint her glare, making the injury on the other side show better than an old war scar.

Body armor and the tattered sleeves of a black coat hid whatever bandaging and stinting had been administered to the Jewel's broken arm. Ibis, the mightyena, stood underneath it. Her teeth and claws had seamlessly replaced human fingers. Onyx held herself as if she had always been that way. The injuries testified to her ferocious thirst for domination and the willingness to do whatever it took to win. Now, it was hard to imagine her without them.

"You don't understand the nature of the problem," Onyx explained. She turned her good eye at Liam. He tensed through the tinted glass. She could see right through him and his pretenses. "No matter what plan you come up with or how well it's executed, I guarantee that these three will fuck it up. It may take weeks, months even before something happens, but another catastrophe like last night will happen if you try to use them to your benefit."

Jade pulled the pipe from her mouth. Ruby squirmed in his seat with a glance over at Sapphire. She refused to look at the Jewel.

"The only way to fix that problem," Onyx continued with a turn of her head to showcase her scar. "Is to make it disappear."

The intercom went dead. All static seized into silence. Mr. Bentley looked up at the ceiling. "Did they turn it off?" he asked.

"No," Liam quietly said. What they heard wasn't the cutting of an open line. It was the Royal Jewels contemplating Onyx's proposal.

They all had their tricks, methods, and routes of moving economy, making product, and getting rid of loose ends, but there was always a trail. Maybe not physical. They wouldn't want the authorities gathering evidence against them. But there were always stories, tales of experience, and gossip that passed from grunt to grunt. It wasn't always hard pressed information, but in the same way one feels an approaching storm, one knew when a Jewel was on the move. The attitudes and actions of others leaked out information even when mouths were sewed shut and witness removed. Reputations were built upon such things. Speculation was a natural exhale of life itself. There were only a select few who could hold their breath and leave no trace behind. Not even a ghost story. Only a dark and empty void.

Onyx, the Black Jewel, was one of them.

Ruby attempted to speak but found his throat so dry that he choked on his words. He passed a wine glass for some water. It rippled within the glass before it even reached his lips. He only managed a coughing sip before he passed it off to one of the twins and wiped his mouth.

"I assume you'll take care of it then?" he said. Jesse offered him a handkerchief. He took it with a pat to the forehead.

"Yes," Onyx briskly replied. She started down the steps. Ibis followed at her heel.

"And the damages?" Sapphire chimed in from the safety of her booth across the room.

Onyx stopped and turned a blood shot eye onto the Jewel. "I suggest fixing them." She then turned it down at the barboach wriggling on the floor. Aquamarine gasped lightly at the visible injury and clung tighter onto her sister's dress. Sapphire possessively held her closer. She couldn't be careless, even at this distance. There was nothing a pirate wouldn't mutilate, rape, or steal. Onyx continued down the stairs unabated.

"It's decided then," Jade announced with a bite of her pipe. She stroked the ralts in her lap, mulling over the sweet flavor soothing the bitterness of her words. Both eyes wisely remained on the Showcase. "Such a shame," she sighed.

The following silence tickled Marcus' nerve. He came up next to the glass with tight knuckles and a furrowed brow. "So, what?" Marcus asked. "Does that mean they're going to kill us?"

"I'm afraid it's far worse than that," Liam explained as he turned away and looked at the door. Several grunts in black burst into the room armed to the teeth in raiding gear. No blue berets or nicotine patches this time. They were Onyx's men. Liam readied himself for the rush.

"Far, far worse."


	47. Dead Men Walking: 1

**Dead Men Walking: 1**

"Have you ever stopped to look at the stars?"

Vermillion stood on the Cage House rooftop, looking up at the sky. There wasn't much to see aside from the smog ridden clouds breaking rain across the city. Raindrops sprinkled her face without disturbing so much as a lash. Vermillion liked the rain. It made her jobs easier. Cleaner. She looked down at First Lieutenant Blue who groaned through swollen lips at her feet. The lieutenant's hair had been pulled from its pins and lay scattered across the jagged gravel. Watery makeup streaked down her face in a poor attempt to hide the bruising that discolored both eyes and half of her chin.

"I didn't think so," the Polisher muttered under her breath.

Vermillion looked up at the sky again. Payback always had a way of calming her nerves, and with the rain, she didn't even have to worry about cleaning up. Not that she intended to anyway. Leaving unexplained blood pools here and there kept the grunts from scurrying too far out of their hovels. A nice easy beating. That's what she needed to clear her mind, especially since that low lying cloud was starting to look like a linoone. Vermillion quickly looked away from it and yanked two black gloves over her hands. She fastened the ends tightly to her wrists. They transitioned seamlessly into a black jumpsuit for a flawless grip that the Polisher used to snatch a fistful of Blue's hair and yank her off of her back.

"I don't either," Vermillion exclaimed, more to herself than anyone as she dragged her kill across the gravel. Blue weakly pawed in rebellion but a quick jerk subdued it. Her grunts weakened to whimpers. Vermillion ignored them. No amount of groveling or apologizing would stop this tirade. "I never thought about it," she continued. "Until recently." Vermillion slammed Blue onto the rooftop edge. Together, they leaned over open air. Polisher on top. Lieutenant on bottom. They stayed that way for a while until Vermillion looked at the puffy red eyes trembling back at her and realized, to her dismay, that neither the rain nor vengeance had satisfied her rage.

All she could think about was the last time she was up on this rooftop and how different the company had been. Years she spent in this crusted old city standing on rooftops and not once did she ever find a star worth staring at. John goes up on the roof for 30 seconds and starts naming twinkles like a God damn fairy. For someone who could do no wrong, he never did anything right. Especially when it came to the business of the Underground.

"That stupid fucking idiot," Vermillion growled. "He can't even get executed properly."

Blue winked open an eye, unsure if this beating was actually about her earlier slight against the Polisher or not. A sharp scoff discarded her, and the notion, to the ground. She lay there, too scared to move and set off the Polisher's predatory instinct again. Vermillion turned away from the discarded lieutenant. She zipped up the top of her black skinsuit, but no matter what she did, she couldn't get comfortable in it. Probably because it had been over an hour and she still couldn't stop thinking about that idiot John and his team of super friends. She shouldn't be thinking about them at all. He was dead and soon they would be too. Plain. Simple. Done. She didn't have any more excuses to be distracted.

Vermillion tossed out her hair to make sure it was free of the customized pokebelt strapped around her neck like a choke chain. A few long stokes down her body lines smoothed out imaginary wrinkles. She needed to make sure hips, thighs, and waist were as slim as possible should she come across some security features that required a bit more flexibility in her recently hired job. After being dumped at the Showcase doors, the Polisher took the first open contract she could find. It was a burglary job for a crime lord fresh on the scene, just rich enough to hire a Polisher and too young to realize the job was worth only a practiced lock picker. It was beneath her to accept contracts that didn't involve priceless artifacts or famous art but at least it was a job, anything to get her out of the city. She had been placid for far too long. Ten minutes and she'd be done with it all.

So would the three stooges.

Onyx probably had Liam, Marcus, and the third wheel on their way to the docks right now. She tried to warn them, or rather, that arrogant overloaded prick. Liam knew better than to come back to the Houses. Whatever happened in between their run in at the Boulder Pokemon Festival and the Showcase was of his own making. Now, he and his friends would be shipped off to the Black Jewel's slaughter house and dismantled piece by piece. Not a follicle or fingerprint would be left. Only a few tabloids of a missing persons. The world might eventually forget that they ever existed.

The region's most popular celebrity ace would become just another John Doe.

Vermillion paused.

Her problems were solved. Liam and the others were taken care off. With them gone, John's ghost had nothing to attach to here on earth. It would disappear just like the others and Onyx didn't even have to put in the effort.

So why was she still standing in the rain looking for stars in a rainstorm?

There wasn't a single twinkle in the sky, but there was a sudden flash. One bright enough to cause a wink, even in the daylight. Lightning was the logical explanation. Vermillion would have pegged it a simple strobe of nature if she hadn't been looking up at the sky when the flash happened. It was sharp enough to glow in an electrical surge but the shape was wrong. It was circular, not jagged, and imploded on itself to create a ring in the sky. The ring expanded, chewing through the air with crystalline teeth. Dark clouds drifted in front of it. Something rumbled with the heaviness of thunder and a dark shadow suddenly sped away from the spot.

Amidst the swirling storm, Vermillion almost lost it, but her polished eyes were keen to details. She caught the shadow in the clouds again and it was moving fast. Whatever was inside had to be organic. Airplanes didn't fly like that. Pokemon did. And this one was huge. It dropped to a lower altitude, dragging clouds along its body to momentarily give it shape. Vermillion sprinted to the other side of the rooftop where she grabbed a cable line and hung over the edge, braving the height with the ease of a sidewalk gutter. The bird lowered deeper into the City, so that when it passed by, Vermillion saw its back

and the person riding it.

There was no way. It was impossible.

The giant prehistoric bird of gossip was real, only this time around, no one seemed to notice it had returned. And they wouldn't, not when the splatter of rain against the bird's _light screen_ created a mirage like effect, camouflaging her from sight. What the military wouldn't give for a trick like that. Ho-oh rose higher into the air and circled around the city. She banked close to the rooftop, close enough to confirm with the naked eye that there was indeed a human passenger holding the reins. He wore no bandages and had no bruises, but there was no way Vermillion would mistake those deltoids. A genuine smile spread across the Polisher's face. It was John.

Pharaoh was still alive, and he had tamed the sun god, Ra.

Onyx forgot to share that little detail. A loud siren suddenly droned to life from the top of one of the buildings, warning those outside to take cover. Vermillion looked down at the dots scurrying into hiding. The emergency weather alerts weren't just for tornados. The citizens of Break Brick knew exactly what kind of _elements_ they were exposed too. They hurried into nearby shops and buildings, thinking they were hiding from a sudden turf war. If only. Onyx must have set up some type of radar to detect pokemon signatures. She wasn't going to let a legendary pokemon escape her clutches a second time. A nearby rooftop suddenly buzzed with activity. People flooded onto it, tearing off tarps and flipping switches in some sort of rehearsed manner. Generators thrummed to life. Blue light softly glowed within four human sized spires on each corner of the building. They were industrial grade pokemon beacons, and that crazy bastard John was about to fly right into them.

Vermillion spun away from the edge. She raced across the rooftop and disappeared down the stairwell, leaving ghosts and glorified grunts behind.

Looking for stars was boring. Chasing them was much more entertaining.

Catching them was even harder. John understood that more than anybody.

"We've been spotted!" he yelled over the gusty rain. "It's now or never!" It was time to put this haphazard plan to save the future into action. Ho-oh lowered into the city, as low as she could go without diving between the buildings. "Right there, that one!" John exclaimed with a point to one of the buildings in the warehouse district. Ho-oh called. Her voice matched the thrill of Marco and Athena's cries as they materialized in flight above them, riding the streamline of the rainbow pokemon's wings. Together, they approached a garage squeezed between the businesses of greed, gambling, and illegal pokemon fights. Shorter and wider than the other buildings, it was the unmistakable cap to the underground shipyard of the Black Market below. The favored docks of the most ruthless pirate he had ever known.

Dangerous, elusive, and stocked with more ammunition than a military base, John couldn't think of a better place to arm himself than Onyx's personal storehouse. He shifted into a low crouch on Ho-oh's back. Turbulence and rain slicked feathers made every adjustment hazardous. Both legs shook lightly as the roof of the shipyard came into view. Grunts scrambled into position on the street below. Having already experienced the rage of the rainbow pokemon before, they were quick to move, and without any sizzling fireballs to impede them, even quicker to action. Luckily, they knew better than to crowd the roof. Ho-oh screeched a warning of her own, but it wasn't for them. It was for her passenger. Landing in the city now was too dangerous. This was supposed to be a flyby and they were nearing the drop point.

John whistled, much like his pokemon, and glanced behind each shoulder to make sure Marco and Athena were in position. The pidgeotto flew as a pair a beat behind and slightly above Ho-oh's pace. Two chirps cut through the storm. They were ready.

Was he?

John held his breath and did what he did best.

Jump.

He leapt off of Ho-oh's back with arms raised, gasping lightly as the rainbow red floor ripped out from beneath him. Weightless, terrified, and wishing he wasn't so insane, the trainer stretched out both hands. Marco grabbed the left. Athena the right. Matching _gusts_ strengthened their wings, and together, they kept their trainer from falling to his death. They guided John's descent towards the warehouse rooftop. Ho-oh quickly pulled up and away from the street, flying past a business tower with four glowing blue corners. John would have liked to watch her leave, but he couldn't, not when the rooftop came up faster than expected. Marco and Athena could only do so much. It's not like they practiced this impossible maneuver. At this rate, he'd brake an ankle on the landing.

Unless there was something to break the fall.

John whistled again and the pidgeotto shifted to the right. Now, he wasn't just headed for the roof but the single armed guard standing watch on top of it. The S.W.A.T. style grunt turned around into a drop kick several stories in the making. John struck him square in the chest and the two tumbled across the gravel. Marco and Athena quickly released their grips and veered away to avoid being dragged along for the ride. By the time they circled back, both humans had come to a stop. Stunned, the grunt rolled onto his back gasping for air. John sat up just as breathless, hair swept sideways and eyes as wild as his heart rate. Blood ran freely down his wrists from the pidgeotto's talons. More would follow if he didn't start moving, and quick. The trainer quickly looked around, scrambled over to the dazed grunt, and hastily compared their boot sizes.

Not a perfect match, but they would fit.


	48. Dead Men Walking: 2

**Dead Men Walking: 2**

A black van waited at the end of the loading dock within the expansive museum style warehouse. Both rear doors were open. Inside, a sheet of clear plastic lined the walls, floor, and ceiling. Outside, the warehouse was empty except for the souls of the condemned on their way to the vehicle.

"Aren't you guys worried about the siren?" Liam asked from position #1 in the chain of prisoners being led to the loading dock. He raised his wrist to ankle shackles and pointed up at the roof. "That's been blaring for a while now."

The military man in front of him made no motion to address the comment, observation, or trepidation. He had a job to do. Deliver the three prisoners to the transporter, escort them to a place that didn't exist, and erase all traces of their physical existence. Permanently. Second down the line, Mr. Bentley leaned a little closer to Liam with a jingle of the chain connecting them.

"If we get in that van, it's over," he whispered.

"Stop talking!" the rear guard shouted. He kicked the closet prisoner, which happened to be Marcus, at the back of the line. The fighter shot a glare over his shoulder just as abrasively.

"Do that again, and I'll smash those goggles into your face," he snarled. Equipped in a black mask, goggles, and helmet, the grunt was more suited to raid a drug house than participate in a ride along. His magnemite passed between them, radiating sparks in warning. Marcus blew them away with a scoff. It would take _at least_ a magneton at maximum charge to incapacitate a prodigy like him. A loud screech suddenly echoed into the warehouse from the outside. Short bursts of gunfire followed. The leader of the chain gang didn't stop.

"Are you sure everything is OK out there?" Liam began again, "because that doesn't sound very good."

Another shriek vibrated their eardrums. Several seconds later, the windows and aluminum walls rattled. Mr. Leader didn't pause. "Keep moving," he ordered.

Bentley cautiously looked up at the roof. Marcus hands tightened underneath their shackles and Liam kept up his casual pace. A shadow suddenly rushed past the upper windows. Metal crunched and a car alarm went off nearby. Vibrations ran through the concrete floor. Leader stopped abruptly and looked behind him. Rear guard nodded. They both grabbed the closest prisoner by the arm, or shoulder depending on the breadth of the muscle beneath, and picked up the pace. They came just as quickly to another stop and it caused Mr. Bentley to trip amongst the chains. A little jostling and the trio settled again between their guards. Escort and captives looked into the van. At this angle, they could see through the open doors to the front of the car where the driver's seat remained empty.

Leader let go of Liam, put a hand to his rifle, and cautiously stepped forward. His instincts rivaled that of a premonition when one of the hanger side doors suddenly opened. A grunt stumbled through the frame, hanging onto the knob as if it were the only thing between him and the floor. His uniform haphazardly hung off of his body. His tall stature only accentuated the length of his fatigue. Even with a mask they could tell he was breathing heavily.

"Stop!" he yelled, despite the group being motionless already.

Leader walked a few steps in his direction. Onyx's decision to send off the convoy had been abrupt and unexpected, even for her men. Scrambling together a team involved pulling men from one action to another. Was this the missing transporter awakened from a classic henchman hangover?

"Code break," Leader demanded. Onyx took every measure to ensure the success of a project, even going so far as to encrypt the details in code. Checking credentials came standard with the Black Label. And for someone who didn't have any, there was no way to hide. The newcomer dropped his head. He swayed away from the door, looked straight past Leader, and stared at Liam between huffs and puffs. His hazel eyes sparkled even behind goggles.

"Angel," he answered.

Liam lifted in a smile. Leader lifted his rifle.

Incorrect password.

A double tap plowed into John's chest, causing him to fall backwards onto the floor. Liam gasped sharply and Marcus immediately sprang into action. He grabbed the length of chain in front of him, yanked Mr. Bentley towards him, and used the slack to whirl upon Rear Guard. A head-butt brought them face to face. Plastic cracked, bruises formed, and the grunt's head flew back in a spray of blood. Mr. Bentley hit the ground, pulling Marcus down with him. Rear guard fell nearby, clutching a broken nose between his fingers. Momentum ran down the chain, pulling prisoner #1 down the line, and into action. Liam leapt over Bentley, hopped around Marcus, and pounced on the grunt with the force of a feraligatr. Mr. Bentley followed. Fresh blood fueled their madness. As they struggled for dominance, Leader quickly turned in their direction to assist his comrade. He raised his sights. Trapped by the chains, Marcus couldn't stop him without pulling the others out of their frenzy and exposing them to the retaliation of the grunt trapped beneath.

And Leader knew it. They were all dead under the barrel of his rifle. Here, pokemon were useless.

That's what Marcus whole heartedly believed until a linoone suddenly rushed by and took out the grunt's legs, clearing all doubt and dignity from the dilemma in one smooth sweep. Leader flipped sideways and struck the concrete in a hail of bullets. They pinged off the ceiling almost as fast as the rushing pokemon's paws against the industrial obstacle course. Charles rebounded off of a nearby crate and raced with lightning speed into another pass along the group. He clipped Leader's shoulder, jarring the rifle right out of his hand and into the talons of a pidgeotto diving onto the scene. Marco caught the weapon and took off with it, causing the safety strap to catch around Leader's neck. He dragged the grunt away from the others and across the warehouse.

Meanwhile, Liam elbowed Rear Guard in the face, displacing his already smashed in goggles while falling on top of him in the process. With the grunt momentarily stunned, Mr. Bentley dove into his pockets and obtained the key to their restraints. He hastily unlocked Liam's shackles and the ace sprinted for the side entrance. Athena passed him heading in the opposite direction. She chirped in acknowledgement of her trainer and in warning to the others. Pressurized energy glossed her feathers in a _wing attack_. Marcus pulled the chain taunt between him and Mr. Bentley. The pidgeotto cut through it in a sharp pop, tugging Bentley off of his captive and pulling Marcus in a stumble.

Suddenly freed, Rear Guard scrambled to his feet. He managed to release a raticate before Benny tackled him by the waist and put him to the ground again. Charles tackled the mouse in a similar manner, drawing its sharpened fangs into a game of tag across the warehouse. They passed Leader as he wiggled free of his rifle strap. Talons full of gunpowder and lead, Marco couldn't stop him. Athena quickly honed in on the escape but Magnemite intervened a wingbeat short of victory with the intrustion a _thunder shock_. Sparks of electricity drove both pidgeotto into retreat. They circled around to the side entrance where Liam dropped to his knees beside John. The ace furiously tore open the black uniform. Instead of two bullet holes to the chest, he found two slugs in a Kevlar vest. Both still hot to the touch.

John roughly gasped life back into his body. He weakly pawed at his face to remove the mask and free up his mouth. Liam quickly took over. He threw away the helmet, goggles, and mask, to reveal the scraggly trainer underneath. Liam shouted out a laugh.

"You're alive!" he said.

Nearby, Mr. Bentley slugged Rear Guard out of the fight once and for all, staggered to his feet with a fresh cut on his lip, and looked over at the pair.

"You came back!" he exclaimed just as loudly.

"You sonuva bitch!" Marcus roared from across the warehouse.

Leader ducked as a pair of shackled fists swung at him with the weight of a sledge hammer. They missed, striking the nearest box of crates in a splinter of wood. Electricity from Magnemite's latest attack still danced across Marcus muscles even as he removed them from a bundle of packing straw. Leader hurriedly disappeared within the network of cargo before the anvil descended once more. Magnemite followed but Marcus knew better than to do the same. His oversized frame was already a disadvantage in these tight spaces. Diving deeper into the shipments would only ensnare him in the grunt's trap. He was furious, not stupid, and there were others that needed his help more than his fury.

Charles raced across the warehouse. Raticate's claws scratched at the cement behind him. On a straightaway, the linoone couldn't be matched but he couldn't attack either. That's what seething hot-headed fighters were for. Charles turned the chase towards Marcus. He came up quickly, thrust his paws forward, and slid underneath a roundhouse kick already in motion. Raticate, thinking the slide a moment of weakness, jumped fangs wide straight into the fighter's foot. Marcus was sure the mouse's tooth broke against his boot because something flew off in the opposite direction as the brown bundle. A large gash also instantly appeared across his ankle. Marcus spun back down, hopped lightly to catch his balance, and tapped his foot against the ground.

The sticky squish of blood between his sock and boot confirmed an injury, as did Charles' nose. The linoone sniffed the cut but a quick shake of the foot shooed him away. He dashed several times across the fighter's path as he trotted through a limp back towards the others. They passed Rear Guard prostrate on the floor along the way and picked up Mr. Bentley. Onyx hired good men, but the Valenis family did better. Liam slung John's arm over his shoulder and lifted the trainer to his feet, just like old times. Luckily, John only staggered once before he regained his balance. Winded, but completely coherent.

Marcus came up just in time to watch the two flattened bullets fall out of the vest and clatter to the floor. John rubbed his chest and winced, and when he caught the fighter's stare, quietly smiled as if in apology. Because getting shot while trying to save them wasn't good enough. Marcus paused for the first time that night. Everything he knew and understood the world to be was challenged by the nature of the smirk in front of him. Even his expectations of rhyme and reason couldn't withstand the might of this curious fool and his ability to defy logic, _especially_ when John then unhooked three pokebelts from his waist. All supplies, gear, and weapons had been removed to make room for them.

"Here," John offered with another pained smile. He handed out each appropriate belt. It was the perfect peace offering. Most trainers in their position would arm themselves with as much firepower as possible. John didn't care about either. He merely returned what was rightfully theirs as if such noble construct built the foundation to society. Marcus reached out and grabbed his belt. He recognized the shine and polish to each ball. It didn't slip his attention that John recognized them too. He knew exactly which belt belonged to who and passed them out without correction or hesitation.

"How the hell did you get these?" Mr. Bentley butted in, looking over his belt and finding everything in place.

"I was a prisoner myself, remember?" John answered. A blaze of light lit up the foggy panes of the upper windows. "But I'll explain later. First, let's get outta here." He tossed Liam a pair of familiar customized riding goggles. The ace wasted no time snapping them into place. Likewise, Leader didn't waste a moment making his escape in the reunion. He dashed out from hiding, sprinted across the loading dock, and smashed a button on a small control consol. The hanger door began to open.

"Don't let him escape!" Mr. Bentley warned.

If Onyx's men weren't already aware of the break out, they would be soon if Leader managed to escape and raise the alarm. John whistled, calling Marco and Athena into action. Both pidgeotto weaved between each other, hurrying towards the van, but the driver's side door slammed shut before they could thrust their talons in and remove the grunt. Rubber squealed against the floor, causing the van to fishtail before it leveled out and clipped the hanger door. Sparks flew out upon impact, jarring the door to a slanted stop. Charles ran out of the hanger after the van and stopped in the misty rain shower soaking the city. Water rolled off his coat as easily as the van down the street. Mr. Bentley jogged to a stop beside him.

"Well, shit," he cursed under his breath. "The meowth's out of the bag now."

Or so he thought. Surprisingly enough, the daring escape hadn't been noticed. In fact, it bled into the surrounding shouts and shrieks of chaos down the street. Mr. Bentley glanced around before he trotted out further into the parking lot for a better view. Marcus stalked out into the natural light behind him, also glancing around for battle and finding none. Marco and Athena escorted their trainers out next. John managed to trot out on his own with Liam not far behind. Together, they grouped in the middle of the parking lot. No one noticed the trouble they caused on the ground when there was so much more raging in the sky above.

At the top of a familiar business tower, grunts once again lay siege to the notoriously distorted shadow of a winged giant. This time around, the bird's image didn't sharply flutter between contrasts of light and dark. The rainy drizzle hazed it into a blurry mirage that blended almost perfectly into the cloudy background. John, however, saw the rainbow pokemon as clear as day. Not only had Ho-oh failed to retreat and return to her home dimension, she was now engaged in battle on the rooftop. Cracks of lightning streaked from earth to sky in an ironic exchange of elements. Spindly fingers of electricity greedily reached for the bird, failing to make contact and thus attracting lightning strikes from the storm beyond. Great pales of thunder masked the screeches and shouts of war.

A pressurized cannon boomed across the district. Its large mechanical net blossomed to life from the rooftop. Ho-oh dipped away from it and the net harmlessly spun over her shoulder in a whir of expanding anti-pokemon gear. From the street, it was a clear miss. Aiming something that large and heavy at a flying type was like trying to take down a tyranitar with a slingshot. But the net didn't stop just because it missed. It arched straight for the warehouse district.

"Take cover!" Mr. Bentley yelled.

The group scattered as the net crashed into the asphalt between them. Steel and chain snapped, crumbled, and bent in on itself in a burst of dust and rubble. Electrical deterrents buzzed in stunted activation. Sparks sputtered out of the net's joints. Smoke coiled up through the rain. Marcus coughed and brushed bits of rubble from his table sized shoulders. Mythical pokemon encounter or not, the bird was taking on the entire city, and not a single grunt glanced in their direction. They would never have a better chance of escape.

"Let's haul ass and get out of here," he said.

John stumbled back into balance and blinked up through the rain. Ho-oh swiftly passed close to the rooftop. Someone, or something, blew over the edge and caught itself on the fire escape. She could have easily snatched up several grunts in her talons and dropped them over the city, but lustful battle wasn't in her nature. Portal making and light bending were defensive measures. Those four glowing blue pillars kept her engaged in battle. With such enormous pokemon lures in place, there was no way she could pull away from the battle on her own, even as a mystical pokemon. She needed the help of someone who understood the nature of those man made weapons. She needed a trainer, her champion.

John whistled a short sharp note. It died in vain. Ho-oh would never hear his call from this distance, even if it came from the heart. She was too distracted by the hostile aggression aimed at her. John would have to get closer in order to free her. He would have to climb the tower and enter the fray. Would this be the moment that spawned or slaughtered the future? John looked to his companions as if they held all the answers. This was their future as much as his, and of course, they had no idea. Mr. Bentley shadowed Liam like any clingy bodyguard would, and should, given the circumstances. The celebrity ace, true to his reputation as a pokemon fanatic, was too enamored by the appearance of a new pokemon to recognize the dangers. It was Marcus who caught John's stare and immediately recognized the fire, and intention, within.

"Don't you do it," he threatened. "It's a suicide mission."

"I won't leave her behind," John replied.

Marcus clenched his teeth to hold back a growl. For him, it made sense that John's appearance brought the monster's along with it. After all, they were last seen flying off together into the raging flaming sunset. John was still alive, so there may be more to this pokemon than fire and brimstone, but there was also a limit to insanity, even for John.

"What are we arguing about?" Mr. Bentley quickly interjected. With so much confusion out on the street, they didn't need any seeping into their ranks.

"This idiot thinks he can climb the tower, free the bird, and live happily ever after," Marcus informed with an accusatory gesture.

John glanced away and scratched the back of his head.

Did he not realize how absurd it was to run head long into the very thing they had come to save him from? Was this whole endeavor just another enormous mistake made by a couple of guilt ridden hotheads looking for a thrill?

"Happily ever after?" Liam suddenly echoed as he turned towards the conversation. His voice peaked with enthusiasm. Too much for the fighter's liking. For once, Mr. Bentley agreed.

"You want to run headlong into that war zone?" the bodyguard interpreted.

"Yes," John answered, simply and stubbornly like a true Cork City gym student. Like an idiot. Like a guilt ridden hothead looking for a thrill.

"But that's where all the bad guys are!"

John smiled again. He wasn't sure why.

"You'll only get yourself killed," Marcus reiterated.

"That's why I'll go with him," Liam announced, "and make sure that doesn't happen."

"Like hell you will!" Marcus and Benny simultaneously snarled.

"No one's coming with me," John explained. "It'll be easier to slip in and out by myself. I'll do what I need to and catch up with you guys later."

Marcus nearly ground his teeth flat. Catch up? Aside from the hound, John's party pokemon were mediocre at best, and a single pokemon, no matter how powerful, couldn't fight forever. Athena had acted as a powerful ally up until this point, but now with Liam present, her priorities centered on her true trainer's needs. John had the stamina to take a beating, Marcus would admit that, but bone couldn't stop a bullet. John was weak. He would snap like a twig against the might of a full frontal assault and the gangly trainer knew it. Still, not a trace of fear clouded his eyes. It reminded Marcus of the day they met on the training grounds inside the compound: bandage vs. brawn. Even then, John may have staggered, but his beliefs never wavered. Marcus won their impulsive match, and still, it felt as if he had lost. John was a mystery as much as a nuisance. To get up over and over again, knowing that victory would never come, maybe that's why John irritated Marcus so much. The fighter had mastered the body, but it was John that had mastered the soul.

Life lesson#4: Strength comes from weakness.

Taught by the unlikeliest of Senpai's.

John moved to leave but Marcus quickly grabbed him by the arm. They looked at each other: one slightly alarmed at the redness of the face in front of him and the other working a tic in his jaw with the under bite of a granbull.

"It's not our fight," Marcus firmly stated. ". . . but it's still a fight. Count me in."

John lifted in a smile, Mr. Bentley groaned, and Liam jumped over giddier than a Mr. Mime in a tickle fight.

"It's a she?!" he squealed in reference to the bird's supposed gender, still obsessing over that previous point in the conversation. Fanatics. "Of course we're going to help. It's rude not to see a lady off!" Liam pulled down his googles and suddenly jogged off down the road before anyone could protest. Marcus quickly pulled away from John before he revealed his new found acknowledgement of his fellow student and hurried after the ace.

"Slow down you bastard!" he yelled.

Mr. Bentley muttered his own curses and followed after them, leaving John behind in a stupor. Even Charles, Marco, and Athena plunged on ahead of him. Noting his disbelief, Liam turned around with a cocky flash of his magazine worthy smile.

"Come on, Champ," he yelled. "You're the one who's fireproof!"

He flicked something up into the air. John caught it with one hand. A dirty and nicked Cork City gym badge filled his hand. He looked at it, smiled, and clutched his hand around it. A tremendous weight suddenly lifted from John's shoulders. His knees need not tremble and his muscles relaxed. The weight of the world no longer hung as a yoke around his neck. John no longer needed to burden himself with the consequences of his actions or what might happen to the future because Liam, Marcus, and Benny, had given him no other choice but to follow them into battle.

Together, they would scale the business tower, free Ho-oh, and damn the rest of the world while doing it.

Today, they would make history.


	49. Dead Men Walking: 3

**Dead Men Walking: 3**

Three psychos and a lunatic jogged down the street through the misty rain. They shared equal parts in a reckless and dangerous mission to infiltrate the criminal underworld and free the mythical rainbow pokemon trapped within. Success was debatable. Survival unlikely, and still John ran next to his comrades with a smile on his face simply because he wasn't the only one considered crazy anymore. And surely, bystanders would have deemed them mad to rush so willingly into such unnecessary danger.

John, Liam, Mr. Bentley, and Marcus, kept their eyes and ears alert for any signs of trouble as they made their way towards the business tower. The streets were clear. Brambles of litter occasionally rolled by in the run off. Several poorly parked cars blocked an intersection nearby, abandoned under the drone of the emergency sirens still blaring in the background. Ho-oh shrieked up above, passing close enough to a skyscraper to rattle the windows. She circled the business tower, drawn to its rooftop by the four pokemon lures glowing at its corners. Rain shattered against her _light screen._ The reflection camouflaged her to the naked eye, especially when she smoothed into a glide.

"Fascinating," Liam muttered as he stopped to admire the unique visual distortions. With his riding goggles in place, he saw the bird more clearly than the others. With fire hot enough to change the weather, Ho-oh didn't need to rely on a storm to cloak her comings and goings. No wonder history had lost sight of her across the centuries. Such powerful light bending energies built the foundation of modern physics and the natural world. Ho-oh's multicolored legacy suddenly made perfect sense. Rainbows truly were bridges that lead to a crown full of gold!

Marcus couldn't care less about the science. 100% of his attention focused on the growing grunt population in the area. He roughly grabbed the awestruck idol and dragged him onto the sidewalk. John withdrew his two pidgeotto and linoone in a similar manner. Pokemon often preceded battle and the group hoped to avoid confrontation as long as possible. They would need every ounce of experience in order to beat the boss waiting at the end of this rainbow. Clearing the levels up to it might prove just as taxing. Luckily, most of the grunts were on their way to the rooftops. Reinforcements weren't needed on the low lying streets, especially when panicked bystanders crisscrossed over their toes every step and stop light along the way. With all eyes aimed at the sky, a couple of anxious civilians minding their own business went unnoticed in the chaos.

But it wouldn't stay that way for long.

One suspicious thought against them and it would be an all-out assault. One they would have blindly walked right into if Mr. Bentley wasn't taking point. He caught movement up ahead and ducked into a nearby alley close to the entrance of the tower. John, Marcus, and Liam quickly followed. A black outfitted patrol strode by down the street. With various pokemon released and pokeballs in hand, they were ready to enforce martial law onto any unheeding citizen. Luckily, they had orders that didn't involve chasing out trash diggers or the group of four that currently presided in their gutters. Liam cautiously peered out from behind the bricks. The patrol moved on, leaving the street outside the entrance eerily quiet. The business tower was the center of the battle yet no one moved in or out.

"Mr. Bentley," Liam called, his voice hushed in respect of the danger before them. Benny quickly came up beside him. "Find us a ride out of here," he explained, "and send an SOS. I think we might need a little help on this one."

" _Now_ you want back up?" Benny hissed.

"We _are_ the back up," Liam quickly reminded with a smile. He patted his friend on the shoulder. "But it wouldn't hurt to dip into that life insurance policy you put on me."

Mr. Bentley nodded, although to call the Calvary and pray that they made it before the ace did something incredibly stupid was less than agreeable. At least, the ace was now willing to consider the value of his life. Benny glanced to Marcus and John. It wasn't a body guard's choice to leave his responsibility in the hands of someone else but they weren't up against common run of the mill bad guys either. They were facing hard core villains. Ones equipped to handle the task of subduing a legendary pokemon. Luckily, under all that _pressure_ , much of that "legendary" equipment would be left unattended. Given John's newly acquired uniform, it shouldn't be too hard to confiscate a few useful items.

Against his better judgment, Mr. Bentley temporarily resigned his protective duties to his comrades. It was for the betterment of the Valenis family, after all. Nothing needed to be said to Marcus about the transition. The fighter looked at him, they exchanged a glance, and both nodded in understanding. John was a little less than reassuring. The trainer winced as he pulled off his jacket and removed the bullet proof vest strapped around him. It was safer to keep it on given his magnetism for misfortune, but the trainer's aching ribs would need as much flexibility as possible in this upcoming sprint into disaster. It was also an unspoken Cork City tradition to remove one's clothing before a fight. Luckily, Liam never picked up the habit.

Mr. Bentley sighed, unable to find the words expressing the importance of John's new found role in this ragtag group of heroes. The trainer didn't realize it, but every decision up until this point had been made because of him. The power duo, Marcus Hailbringer and Liam Valenis, could not be controlled but they could be swayed, and for some reason, John had the power to push them one way or another. Skinny as his arms were for a muscle head.

Benny only hoped it was in the right direction.

Either way: north, south, to destiny or to disaster, it was Mr. Bentley's job to provide the transportation, and he wouldn't disappoint. He was a professional after all, and the Valenis family didn't hire good men, they hired the best. Mr. Bentley peeked around the corner, glanced from side to side, and dashed across the street in pursuit of his task. He cleared the roadway and looked back at the others before he darted off in the other direction. Both groups needed to get moving if they wanted to make it to the top before the end of the encounter. Liam hugged the brick edge again. The coast was still suspiciously clear but the front entrance was the fastest way into the building and Ho-oh's shrieks grew shriller by the minute.

"Let's go," he whispered.

It was now or never.

The three filed out into the street under the boom of another pressurized cannon. John slowed and glanced up at the sky in a moment of terror inspired doubt. Would the net catch Ho-oh this time around? Had her luck finally run out? Fire spilled over the edge of the roof in the wake of the rainbow pokemon's passing. Her wings beat back the anti-pokemon gear easier than the rain. Marcus pushed John back into motion, not wanting to fall behind any more than they already had. Liam was already at the revolving glass doors of the entrance. He pushed through and stopped just past the other side. John bumped into him trying to exit the revolving door and stopped the mechanism, trapping Marcus inside the cylinder. An awkward fit of shuffling freed the fighter. He brushed past the others and stood at the front of the small group, but even his lumbering steps quickly came to a halt at the sight before him.

Liam slowly removed the goggles from his eyes. They expected to come across some grunts.

Just not like this.

Two men were sprawled across the lobby. Both were clad in all black with the distinctive flare of apathetic oppression, clearly of Onyx's crew. Several pokemon surrounded them. All were unconscious. Whoever, or whatever, had subdued them had done it quickly. The released pokemon didn't make it far beyond their materialized positions and there wasn't much of a mess between them. No scorch marks, puddles, leaf litter, or other debris classic of a pokemon battle marked the floor. Nothing except a few scuffs on the linoleum. There wasn't even any blood. Maybe a drop or two on the lip of one of the grunts, but nothing explicitly indicative of a massacre. Trained as a first responder, John walked over, crouched down next to one of the men that could have very well been one of his tormentors in the Cage, and placed two fingers against his skin.

Cold, clammy, and very much dead.

John quickly removed his hand, but it wasn't his first carnival of carnage. The Cage had seen to that and Liam didn't miss the subtle desensitized response as John continued his examination from afar. No cuts or punctures defaced the grunts' black uniforms. Just like the lobby, there wasn't any battle dirt on their bodies suggestive of a pokemon battle despite their pokemon being present. Any exposed skin was clear of bruising. Nothing broken, blackened, or missing. Whatever killed them must have been internal, probably the result of smashed organs and torn tissue. John wasn't completely sure of his deduction, but he had experienced enough pain on his own to recognize a professional beating when he saw it.

"This was done by a pokemon," he said. "A fighting type."

Marcus' entire body clenched, his dojo's heritage threatened by the acts of a single unlawful fighter trained in the same arts as he.

"Looks like someone beat us to the punch," Liam tried to jest, knowing full well how the fighter hated such remarks. It failed to unlock Marcus' jaw.

"More like a trainer," John corrected with a motion to the elevator across the lobby. "Or two."

A _ding_ slid the metal doors apart, revealing two fully functional grunts inside. Red accents adorned their newly woven uniforms. Why were Boss Ruby's men here? Despite their rather apparent discrepancy in size, they matched one another almost perfectly in disposition.

"That takes care of the first two floors," the first grunt exclaimed as he kicked the boot of another unconscious man on the floor out of the way.

"Now, all we have to do is wait for Onyx to catch that giant pidgin," the second added with a curl of his scarred lip. "Then, we steal it and bring Big Red the legendary pokemon prize he's always been waiting for."

"It'll put us back in his good graces."

"Work smarter, not harder." The shorter grunt jolted to a halt halfway through his disfigured wink when he looked up and saw three new arrivals in the lobby. John quickly stood up and the grunt's scar twitched.

"You!" he snarled.

"You!" John mimicked with much more innocent surprise. Marcus glanced between them and Liam smiled.

"Rocky! Bullwinkle!" the ace greeted. Neither grunt nor fighter understood the reference. John quickly filled in the gap with a glare.

"These are the grunts that kidnapped me outside McAlister's," he explained.

"And called me bad names at the festival," Liam pointedly added.

Marcus clenched his hands into fists hard enough to throw sweat off of his knuckles.

"What?!" he bellowed. "These are the grunts who thought they could get the jump on me?! How the hell could you mistake _me_ for _this_ twerp!?" John didn't address the accusatory point flung in his direction. He hardly believed the mistake himself. Marcus tore off his cotton T-shirt, threw it to the ground, and stepped over the unconscious man on the floor, smoke spewing from his nostrils

"How 'bout it fellas'?" he continued. A broad square toothed grin pinched his cheeks back, stretching the unshaven shadow across his chin. "Still want to go a few rounds with ol'Hell Raiser?!"

Every letter rang in the challenge. Liam stepped forward to follow the charge but the fighter suddenly whirled around, put a flat hand on the ace's chest, and shoved him backwards so roughly that he tripped over the fallen grunt on the floor. Remorse did not follow. Grunts never fought squarely. They almost always invoked the use of poison or trickery. Marcus wasn't about to expose Liam and his hypersensitivity to it, especially since this mistaken identity crisis was his grudge to bear. John was also there to catch the falling ace without hesitation.

Rocky stepped out of the elevator with a click of a pokeball off of his belt.

"Today is our lucky day," he said. "First, Sapphire loses her House. Then, Onyx does all the heavy lifting, catching that bird for us, and now Ruby's most wanted walks right into our laps!"

Bullwinkle came up beside his much smaller partner. Marcus sneered. Two against one. Not bad odds, or at least, that's what he thought until John suddenly came up beside him and took Liam's place. The fighter aimed a scowl at him. It was met with a side-eyed smirk.

"You're not the only one holding a grudge," John explained.

Marcus, despite his long awaited reckoning, couldn't refute that.

"Really?" Rocky asked from across the room, turning his attention once again on John. "We whipped your ass once. We can do it again." He tossed one of his classic balls to Bullwinkle and raised its reflection with a shake. "We got a little upgrade since the last time we met, compliments of the Red Dragon."

Rocky and Bullwinkle released their pokemon and two hitmonlee materialized in front of them. Identical in body and form, they bounced into position.

"That's new," John remarked.

Steady, unwavering, and defiantly not raised by two bumble headed idiots like these, Marcus immediately acknowledged the skill before him by lowering into position, one reserved for his tournament belts and titles. The blood clot fusing his sock to his skin around his ankle broke free and the stabbing pain of raw flesh pinched the fighter's eye. Raticate's tooth had cut him deeper than he realized. Warm blood seeped up to his toes in his shoe. John pretended not to notice the flinch. It was a curtesy gratefully accepted.

"When they push," Marcus said, the notion of a battling partner no longer so outrageous.

"You punch back," John finished, lowering into an identical stance.

The two glanced at one another through the corner of their eyes. John smiled and Marcus couldn't help but smirk. Whatever secrets the trainer harbored or resentments the fighter felt, they all vanished under the Mountainside logo branded into their bodies. Both students turned to the battle ahead.

"You better not make a bad name outta our gym!" Marcus warned.

Aiming to do exactly that, the two hitmonlee sprang into action. They raced across the lobby, bent their elastic legs to full power, and leapt into mirroring _jump kicks_. Marcus and John threw up their arms in defensive positions and repelled both hitmonlee in counter pitches. One flew farther and faster than the other, boosted by Marcus' sheer difference in strength, but still managed to land at the same time as the other. They propelled themselves back into action. Each coil of their spring like legs flawlessly transitioned potential and kinetic energy with every movement. The momentum of the backfired _kicks_ , now the agent that fueled their next attack.

Humans couldn't hope to keep up.

Cork City gym students could.

Marcus and John expected instant retaliation and were already in motion in anticipation of the blows that struck faster than their sight could follow. Muscle met muscle in another absorption of energies. Both _kicks_ once again failed against the maneuvers of the students, trained to handle the powerful manipulations of a fighting type. With the momentum now lost, Hitmonlee and its kin transitioned into _close combat_ , hoping to keep the speed advantage over the powerful sturdy human forms. Shin to shin. Elbow to elbow, every blow caught a parry.

The two students shifted effortlessly beside one another, making room for their thrusts and deflections without separating more than an inch or two apart. When one fighter caught a kick in the side, the other bent an elbow to compensate for the curve. When a leg went up to block, the second set of hips moved down. Their backs and shoulders never once bumped into each other. They slid in and out of each other's movements with the ease of mechanical gears and pulleys. John worked without fear of the powerhouse beside him. Neither competing nor trying to catch up to the deadly strikes. Instead, he filled in the gaps, leaving Marcus completely focused without worry of running into the smaller fighter or accidentally catching him in a blow. So in tune were their styles that Marcus almost considered John an extension of himself, as if they had fought beside one another for years. Swelling with sudden unspoken passion created by the success of their symbiotic styles, both students retaliated in their first offensive attack.

Both hitmonlee immediately bounced back from the aggressive assault, putting enough distance between them to pause the fighting. Identical vs. fraternal twins: The hitmonlee had finally met their match. Sweat fell down their smooth bald brown heads. Muscle spasms shuddered down each leg. Their slanted eyes pinched in recognition of the talent before them. John and Marcus panted just as heavily. Neither dared break their stance to wipe the sweat from their eyes. Together, their defenses were unbreakable.

But what if they were apart?

One hitmonlee took off in a sprint to the left. He curved around towards the human pair and jumped off of the front desk into another _high jump kick_. John turned to one side to avoid it. Marcus the other. The second kicking pokemon wedged between the two fighters and spun, pushing them further apart. His partner joined him in the middle and another wave of sweeping legs followed. Marcus ducked to avoid the serrated feet, unconsciously moving backwards to avoid the hitmonlee's advance. John jumped away from his own pursuer, dodging every blow that followed. Each strike and counter pushed the two humans farther and farther apart. They felt the distance, and the openings it created, almost immediately.

Misreading the distance with the extension of the pokemon's flexible muscle, John caught a foot in his side instead of a coiled leg. Two of the three diamond hard toes pierced the trainer's side. He grimaced, but the wound was shallow against the curl of his torso. Better to shorten the distance. John grabbed the leg, lunged forward, and thrust an elbow into Hitmonlee's face. He then spun and threw the pokemon to the floor. Marcus couldn't see the tackle, engaged in his own series of attacks, but the second hitmonlee could. He quickly popped up in a nearly impossible vertical jump over the fighter's head, and landed on John's back to rescue his partner. Comradery between fighters wasn't just for humans. It pushed John down into the hitmonlee beneath him. Its coiled legs acted as a spring. It absorbed the downward push, threw John backwards in the release towards his fellow student, and launched the second hitmonlee, who was still on the trainer's back, into a reverse leap across the lobby.

One hitmonlee landed in front of Marcus. The other sprang into position to complete the pincer on the other side. John rolled over his shoulder and popped up just as readily beside Marcus. He bounced back to back with the much wider fighter, arms up and ready for another round.

"Did you see that, Sensei?" he laughed. "I'd say I've gotten better!"

Marcus sharply turned his head.

 _Sensei?_

The identical twins settled to gauge their next assault, one on either side to keep the humans back to back instead of the more perilous side to side arrangement. It was the best human competition they had in years. So uncertain and intoxicating was the challenge that they completely forgot about the world of pokemon they lived in and the ace trainers that wielded them. They never saw the two volcano pokemon as they rolled into action. Sonya hit first in a _rollout_ that flattened the hitmonlee in front of Marcus faster than a dump truck. Beats was a close second, bowling his target over and into a spin across the linoleum with a _flame curl_.

Both volcano pokemon unraveled with the finesse of a celebrity ace stepping onto a red carpet. Beats lit his torches with a sneeze and Sonya's back roared to life simultaneously. The lobby instantly brightened in a flood of light. Rocky and Bullwinkle backed away in the heated assault. Marcus and John endured the flames, stuck between the two pokemon. Sonya snarled in a sudden burst of blue energy. It lit her entire body on fire, summoning an otherworldly specter before their very eyes. Rocky and Bullwinkle tripped over themselves gunning for the exit. Marcus scoffed. At least they had the decency to withdraw their pokemon before they made it out of the door.

Grunts.

Threat extinguished, Sonya and Beats put out their coats. The lobby instantly quieted without the roar of battle and flames, leaving an awkward silence until the fire alarm suddenly went off and drenched the entire lobby. Finely sprayed pipe water cooled the fighters' heated blood, forcing them out of their stances. Liam quickly withdrew his pokemon and walked up between them, unaffected by Marcus' scowl or the stale rain.

"What is it with you Corkie gym nuts?" he scolded. "In a pokemon fight, use your pokemon!-"

As if on cue, a loud screech suddenly interrupted the Ace's advice. The building shook in a tremor. All eyes flew up to the ceiling, winking against the fire suppression system working just as well on the rooftop as the sprinklers in the lobby. The roof was their final destination and Onyx was currently there, John knew, battling a legendary pokemon.

"What kind of pokemon do you use in a fight against a god?" Marcus sarcastically replied, still clinging to his natural finger to fist instincts. He wasn't looking for an answer, but John came up with one almost instantly.

"A devil," he replied.

One doused in gunpowder and venom.


	50. Dead Men Walking: 4

**Dead Men Walking: 4**

"How's the situation on the roof?" Onyx asked as she walked into a dimly lit conference room at the top of the business tower. The question was curt and empty of expectation.

"The target's staying within range because of the lures but damage is minimal," First Lieutenant Vaughn answered as he followed her in. "We miss more than we hit and anything that actually sticks is neutralized against Ho-oh's _light screen_."

Onyx stepped up to the large rectangular table in the middle of the room. Various weapons, ammunition, and trainer gear lay across it. Onyx bypassed the glistening barrel of a freshly cleaned AK-47 and tucked several items in her pockets and on her belt.

"What did you expect," she dryly exclaimed in reference to the _screen_. "This is a legendry pokemon's main line of defense, not some tournament circuit field barrier." The trickle of emotion in the Jewel's voice warned Lieutenant Vaughn of her displeasure, a curtesy allotted only to him. She traded an extra weapon's magazine for a purple and white pokeball inside the folds of an unblemished black crystal box. The master ball clicked flawlessly onto her hip.

"Pull everyone off of the roof," Onyx ordered. "I'm going up."

Vaughn obediently shifted out of the way as the Royal Jewel turned for the door. He kept pace with her to avoid the flare of her black jacket. Few knew of the razor blades stitched into the tips. In the hallway, the fluorescent lights flickered. It wasn't the first glitch since entering the business tower. Several alarms had gone off the moment the pokemon lures went live and the battle with Ho-oh began. They had to disarm most of the security features to stop the insistent shrills and eventually cut power all together after something triggered the fire alarm. Flickering lights were to be expected, especially after a pass from the bird above. But there was no shrill, tremor, or flick of flame this time around.

This was caused by something else.

The lights strobed sharply and went out, darkening the entire floor. Lieutenant Vaughn and the Black Jewel stopped midstride. Silence filled the hallway. Several seconds ticked by before the pale white security lights flicked on. Their glow strengthened, the buzz of electricity loud against the stillness. Lieutenant Vaughn quickly turned around and glanced down the long stretch of empty hallway behind them. The dim light weakly pierced the darkness of the windowless corridor. The buzzing faded to background noise and foreboding stillness returned. Lieutenant Vaughn tensed and took a cautious step back towards the conference room. The door to the makeshift armory suddenly slammed shut in a sharp _bang_ beside him. He flinched, snatched the handle, and wiggled to no avail.

Locked.

A quiet chuckle slowly filled the hallway. Its haunting echo froze Lieutenant Vaughn's blood faster than the haunting. He stiffened, not daring to look behind him at its source. Onyx lowered her eyes, the point of her smirk small and piercing like the tip of a syringe. Such tricks may spook her lieutenant, but she thrived in the primordial paradox of fear. Ghosts were nothing more than congregations of energy, easily dispelled by counteracting forces. It was the conjurers behind them that should be feared, or rather, the pokemon trainers that captured those specters. There were few skilled enough to mold a _dark pulse_ into an electromagnetic pulse. A trick of the thief's trade.

Onyx turned around and peered down the far end of the hallway. The security light at its end was completely disabled, leaving nothing but a nightmarish hole where the eye could master the art of paranoia. As a shadow master herself, the Black Jewel knew there was a monster lurking just out of sight.

"You don't have to come out if you don't want to," Onyx exclaimed. "But it won't make a difference."

"I know," the darkness smoothly replied. "You like it _dark_."

The hallway remained silent even as a long and curvy silhouette materialized into the gray light. Vermillion owed that particular skill to her favorite black cat suit she used for burglary contracts. Body tight, black as night, and perfectly suitable to stalk in, black coated persians would have mistaken the Polisher as one of their own. Onyx immediately recognized its danger. Her frown matched the cold hard stare of her blind eye.

"You working tonight?" the Royal asked.

"I'm afraid so," Vermillion replied just as calmly. A touch of frost seeped out from the darkness around her. Ice crackled and popped along the fluorescent light casing overhead, crawling out along the walls and into the light. Hell often froze over with the presence of the dead. Crooks and Jinx floated into visibility over Vermillion's shoulders. Lieutenant Vaughn put a hand to his waist. Onyx stretched out a palm to stop it, her eyes never once leaving the Polisher. Moving too quickly often invoked the panther's pounce.

"For business or pleasure?" the Jewel meant to clarify.

Vermillion's cold hostility seduced a snarl onto her black lips.

"It's personal."

Lieutenant Vaughn broke into a sweat. He glanced between the two women unsure of exactly what, or who, the Polisher was after, but being coy wasn't in his nature. A step put him in line between the two forces.

"What do you want?" he demanded with another squeeze of his belt.

Vermillion looked right through him, ignoring his feeble attempts at authority. "Going up?" she asked with a glance at the arsenal strapped around Onyx's waist. "I thought people like us were only supposed to go down?"

Onyx, in unusually playful spirits with her feathered prize so close at hand, indulged the Polisher. "So what game is it tonight?" she replied. "Tag? Hide and seek?"

Vermillion twirled Jinx's smoky tendrils in her hand. "I was thinking a little more high-stakes," she explained, "Maybe poker, but it seems someone's already called your bluff."

Vermillion's gaze ran down the length of the Black Jewel's newly acquired scar. Onyx narrowed the slit of her good eye, snubbing out the short life of her good humor in its pinch.

"Unlike some players, I didn't fold in the final round," she remarked. "Sorry, but I don't have time to play around with children."

Onyx turned on her heel and strode for the stairwell leading up to the rooftop access. No elevators from here on out. The door opening to the staircase suddenly slammed shut. The Black Jewel paused long enough to watch a sableye faze out of his _shadow sneak_ and perch on the handle.

"You put a hit out on my B.A." Vermillion snarled from the opposite end of the hall. She had been deceived and slighted by the Jewel, but that's not why her blood boiled.

"Are you mad because I broke one of your toys?" Onyx goaded. She sharply turned to face the Polisher. Her voice pitched in anger. "He was always mine to begin with!"

The sudden burst of possessive vehemence startled Vermillion. Onyx was acting as if John had been something more than a means to an end, like one of her prized artifacts lost to the violence of the Underground while in search of another, rarer piece. Collectable but not valuable. A treasure map no longer needed with the treasure in sight. His loss was nothing more than a weak lament over the empty case in her gallery. Onyx didn't know that John was still alive and Vermillion wasn't about to let her figure it out.

"Only because I brought you to him," Vermillion snapped back, playing the role imposed on her. Although, she didn't have to pretend much at all. That unnerved her more than Onyx's tone. Vermillion slipped a hand down her thigh to the secret pocket stitched within. Well aware of the Polisher's methods of murder, First Lieutenant Vaughn drew a pokeball from his belt. This time, Onyx didn't stop him. She smelt blood in the water. Vermillion had as many openings as a registeel, and somehow, Pharaoh had peeled back her armor. The Black Jewel instinctually pounced upon the weakness with greedy lust.

"A Polisher showing sentiment?" she sneered. "You should have known better than to get attached!"

Vermillion hesitated. Her armor cracked a little further under the irrefutable and infuriating truth. Onyx was compelled to see it split in half.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" the Black Jewel continued. "Such a doting sponsor! Three meals a day, medical treatments every morning, training in the P.T. room under _your_ reservation, making him believe he could be a Blood Ace."

Vermillion turned as red as her name but it wasn't enough. Onyx meant to draw blood. Her merciless persecution didn't end with just humiliation and hypocrisy.

"You even begged me to let him use the private quarters I provided for you outside of my gallery, but I'm sure you didn't tell him that. Consider your privileges revoked."

Vermillion roared, pulled out the hidden knife, and threw it across the hallway. Onyx caught it in her broken arm as if it were made of wood and tore it out in a splash of blood.

"Now, there's the devil I know!" she taunted. Sudden rumblings from above, coupled with a brief power surge that almost brought the regular lights back on, indicated a spike in activity on the roof. It brought the Jewel's purpose back to light. Onyx didn't have time to waste on a vendetta when there was a legendary bird to be had. She whirled upon her Lieutenant, cold hard apathy once again demanding swiftly executed perfection.

"Kill her," she said.

"My pleasure," Lieutenant Vaughn answered.

Cold steel filled both of Vermillion's palms. She threw two more knifes at the back of the Royal Jewel's head with as much fury as precision. A set of spiked ivory horns quickly smashed them sideways into the wall. A freshly released pinsir dropped heavily onto the floor. His iridescent wings still stuck out of the bottom of his beetle armor. He chattered, drumming the rows of teeth along the incision of his mouth like piano keys. Crooks and Jinx floated over Vermillion's shoulder to the front. They rolled into and over one another, using each other's central gravity to accelerate every spin. A black dot flickered to life in the center of the two swirling masses.

Jinx's _shadow ball_ grew, igniting into blue flame against the touch of Crook's _Will-O-Wisp_. The flaming black ball shot forward, screaming with the wails of tormented souls. Pinsir leaned forward and dropped his horns horizontally across the ground so that it passed above him. Lieutenant Vaughn threw himself against the wall, drawing sweat from the projectile's passing. Its light streaked down the hallway, striking the wall in a wave of flaming plasma next to the stairwell entrance. Onyx turned her back to the subsequent explosion. She neither flinched nor acknowledged the concussion of superheated air as it threw her braid and coattails in front of her. The vacuum of light darkened her already black body to sinister proportions.

Cutter still stood in her way.

The sableye hissed from his crouch on the door handle leading to the stairwell, unaware that the Black Jewel had used the light of the explosion to mask the materialization of her own pokemon. The shadows used to conceal the crystal eyed pokemon suddenly turned against him as Dracks, the ariados, leapt out from his hiding place and struck. He clamped onto Cutter, shook a _venom drench_ over the ghost to keep his hold, and threw the wretch off to the side, clearing the door. Onyx strode through the steaming puddle of poison chewing its way through the carpet and ascended the staircase.

Farther down the hallway, Lieutenant Vaughn ordered an advance. Pinsir's brown shell creaked open and two transparent wings hummed to life, lifting the stag beetle off of his feet. He flew forward in a _vice grip_. Crooks and Jinx were still in the process of separating. They couldn't attack until they were fully reformed, but Luminesce, the sneasel, could. She jumped onto Vermillion's shoulder from behind, launched into the air, and flipped over her party pokemon, landing on top of Pinsir's back. The hard wing casing snapped shut and clipped the beetle's wings instantly. She then kicked off into a backflip that drove the beetle to the floor. One of his horn tips caught the carpet and he flipped.

Luminesce landed gracefully, turning to catch the last glimpses of her enemy's heavy crash. He rolled onto his back, and against the weight of his head, couldn't lift himself right away. The sneasel smugly smiled to herself and jumped onto Pinsir's stomach. The scarlet flags on her tail were already stiff with frozen energy thanks to the two gastlys' previous temperature drop. Cold smoke drifted from her elongated ear upon command. Luminesce combed a hand along it, transferring ice crystals onto her clawed fingers. She hardened them with a kiss of cold breath and an _ice shard_ formed over her hand in the shape of a spear point. It was a wonderful work of art, one that needed to be shared for full effect. Luminesce stabbed Pinsir in the torso, piercing his shell in a crack.

The beetle shrieked in a spit filled rattle. His body wobbled rapidly against the internal struggle of his organs and Luminesce's exploratory claws. The sneasel remained poised, driving her lance to the heart. Sensing the presence of death, Crooks and Jinx wailed in a piercing cry. The emergency lights strobed, masking the ghosts' approach as they suddenly propelled themselves forward with a _dark pulse_. Lieutenant Vaughn sucked in his breath, knowing it would be stolen from him anyway. Crooks phased through his body, but the otherworldly _lick_ wasn't enough to paralyze, especially for one already stone cold.

Vaughn ripped the handheld Taser from his belt. In one motion, he slashed its crackling pop through Jinx's body, and released another pokemon with his free hand. The ghastly shuddered in distortion against the surge. Its smoky wisps violently dissipated in retreat, leaving nothing behind. Crooks quickly vanished into the otherworldly plane to retrieve his partner. Without guidance, it could take many minutes for a wounded ghost to reform in the physical world, too many in the split second speeds of battle.

Another enemy was already on the field.

A heracross introduced himself with the glistening flash of a _harden_. Luminesce yanked her hand out of Pinsir's belly, wagged off the juices, and hopped down to the floor. She found the single blue horn short of impressive. She had seen bigger. Two swipes _honed_ her _claws_ for the next round and the sneasel took off in a scarlet flutter. Squashing bugs was one of her favorite hobbies. Heracross tracked her approach better than a laser pointer. Experienced in the techniques of the swift and speedy, his horn shifted and tilted to stay in line with the sharp claw pokemon. Luminesce couldn't shake it, so her party pokemon collided with it.

Cutter jumped into the cup of the smooth armored horn, his ghostly body paled to pastel proportions from Dracks' attack. Heavily poisoned and losing strength fast, he was dead weight to his trainer's cause, but it was still weight none the less. Heracross tipped forward, Cutter rolled out of the cup onto the floor, and Luminesce stepped in. By then, the beetle's momentum reversed. He lurched upwards in a _megahorn_ that catapulted the sharp claw pokemon down the hallway behind him. Lieutenant Vaughn saw her coming but couldn't react fast enough.

A wide smile spread across his throat. He clutched his neck in a choking gurgle and fell to his knees, dead before he even hit the floor. Luminesce landed behind him. She tossed the blood from her claws and twitched an ear against a sudden drop in temperature. Crooks and Jinx reappeared through the left and right walls beside Heracross. He glanced between them, and when their bodies suddenly rimmed in blue _wisps_ of fire, he _thrust_ out both arms to catch them. Ghostly smoke filled his empty hands and both gas pokemon were trapped, but by doing so, the beetle's arms could not protect his body. No horn, no matter how big, could stop the _hyper fang_ that clamped onto the joint of his leg and torso.

Bezel, the rattata, drove his fangs to the bone, twisting and chomping faster than a sewing machine. Ligaments shredded underneath his bite and the joint failed. The mouse quickly scurried away to avoid being trapped under the enemy as he fell. Heracross dropped to the ground, his one leg almost separated from his body. Greenish blood squirted out from the carnage, causing him to slip further to the ground, just enough for Vermillion to leap over. The Polisher cleared the confrontation and sprinted down the hallway after Onyx. She withdrew an immobilized Cutter in the process. It wasn't like an assassin to take the lead and rush headlong into battle so openly. Startled by the act of defiance, Vermillion's three pokemon could only do what was expected of them: win the battle.

It wasn't as easy as they thought.

Crippled, Heracross' _Guts_ ability kicked in. His trainer was dead, but he wasn't, not yet, and he would fight to survive until the very end. He was a First Lieutenant's pokemon after all. The beetle tightened his grip on the ghosts using the meditative energies of a fighting type and slammed them together harder than a pair of cymbals. Their dark energies mashed together and disoriented the ghosts' sense of being. Heracross then ripped them apart again, causing further damage to their unstable forms. They melted out of his hands back into the otherworld to collect themselves. Bezel charged, _taunting_ Heracross into a similar advance and giving the ghosts a chance to catch up to their trainer. The Polisher wasn't acting like herself. She was passionate. Enraged.

Scared.

Vermillion sprinted down the hallway, splashing through blood and poison along the way. Both warmed the soles of her feet in haste. She passed Luminesce. The sneasel turned, only catching a glimpse before the Polisher ascended the stairs. Every second counted. It was a race against time. Vermillion trusted in her pokemon to know when to win and when to run. She wouldn't stop to watch the end of their battles, not when Onyx was probably already plucking feathers from the giant rainbow colored bird on the rooftop. John's heart would be next, ripped straight out of his chest as a sacrifice to the Underground's Black Jewel. Onyx meant to capture the bird but that didn't mean she wouldn't kill it if the battle pulled out of her favor. Vermillion didn't care for Ho-oh, but if it died, John was second in line and his morally attuned compass would shatter at the discovery.

Vermillion had to hurry if she wanted to save them both.

The Polisher would have scoffed if the adrenaline pushing her to maximum speeds wasn't so taxing. She couldn't believe what she was thinking or doing. She was feeling, actually feeling something more than the primal satisfaction of pleasure or the sharp brink of survival. It felt terrible. Sweat clung to the curls of her hair. Her heart pounded with the drums of panic and every nerve in her body tingled with seeds of dread. Such sensitivity heightened every sound and movement. Luckily, to her advantage. Vermillion noticed the three grunts turning down the flight of stairs above her before they spotted her. She reacted instantly, drawing her switchblade and flicking it open so fast that it never caught the light.

The first grunt went down so fast that he was still talking even after the blade slashed across his throat. Blood filled his words, stirring a blank stare from the second in line. He was still processing what had happened to the first by the time Vermillion was upon him. A single well aimed swing defaced him from chin to cheek, and of course, at this point, the third couldn't be left alive to avenge his comrades. This grunt managed to touch his pokebelt before Vermillion struck but he wasn't fast enough to out maneuver a contract killer with the element of surprise. His body clumsily slumped across the landing and slid down a step or two before coming to a stop.

Vermillion stood on the landing the grunts descended from, breathing heavily, blade in hand. Blood steadily dripped from the tip, just shy of a faucet spout. Chin high, the Polisher looked down at the product of her craft. Three dead bodies lay strewn across the stairwell, all dead before they ever realized it. Her bright emerald eyes glowed in the darkness. One had foreign blood painted across it like mascara. Below, the grunts faces, or what was left of them, were wind worn. Their lips were dry and cracked as if they had been in the desert for days. Sunburnt and brittle, they were practically jerky.

The three must have come from the rooftop and a losing battle given their condition. They probably had their orders to retreat. Onyx didn't hide behind her men. She didn't hide at all, and the grunts weren't about to double cross the lady in black, even in the face of a Polisher. They never meant to get in Vermillion's way. Whoops. A shrug dismissed the mistake. Three less men for Onyx to retaliate with when she learned that her First Lieutenant was filleted from ear to ear. Grunts were expendable. Loyal lieutenants were a dime a dozen.

Then again, so were star gazers in a city of sin.

Vermillion clutched tighter onto her blade and quickly ascended the next flight of stairs. She knew she wasn't acting like herself or taking the usual predatory precautions, but there was only half a level to go before she reached the ultimate goal. The Polisher appeared around the last corner, too fast for her reflexes to follow. She never saw the black spaded tail slice out of the shadows until it nicked the steel firehose box and cut across her shoulder instead of her head. The Polisher snarled, spinning into the wall. Shiva, the seviper, launched in a _venom drench_ , her fangs even faster than her tail. Vermillion hit the wall and reflexively lifted her hand, stabbing the steel blade into the roof of the viper's mouth. It stopped the snake in place.

Shiva hissed in pain and fury, her fangs only inches from the Polisher's head. Hot drool dripped from her open jaws. The glistening tip of the knife poked through the viper's nasal cavity, however, not her brain, leaving all form and function intact. Vermillion's arms shook trying to keep the attack at bay. Years of murderous instinct saved her life, but not even a human trained in the art of killing could hold back so much coiled muscle. Shiva continued to press forward with her head, forcing the human underneath to keep her arms raised and expose her tender belly. The seviper's tail coiled into position. This time, she aimed for the Polisher's stomach.

Luminesce jumped in between.

She caught the arrowhead in her claws and grabbed the edges closest to the point to keep it from piercing her chest. The force of the blow slammed her into Vermillion's chest, knocking the wind out of both of them. Shiva recoiled from the awkward off balanced position of her head and tail. Luminesce immediately relinquished her grasp. The spade had cut through the cartilage of her claws down to the quick. Vermillion was unwilling to let the viper go so easily. She kept her grip on the switchblade, even as the snake pulled back, twisting it so that the custom serrated edge at the bottom caught flesh. Shiva lost more than her sense of smell as she pulled away, the quickness of her own movements ensuring that the blade pulled all the way free before she realized what had happened.

The viper coiled backwards in retreat. She shook her head violently and coughed up the blood running down her throat. Vermillion snickered, slung her arm around Luminesce's torso, and pushed off of the wall to stand. The sneasel hung over her arm for a moment before she hopped back to the ground. Vermillion let her go. Cuddling after a kill wasn't their style. Besides, the viper wasn't dead yet. Shiva slinked into the shadows, a place with too many hole to hide in to let her go freely. Vermillion looked down at her pokemon.

"Can you do it?" she asked.

Luminesce looked at the linear cuts in her hands created by the black lance. The durability and strength of her claws, and thus, attacks, were compromised. She quickly coated them in matching _ice shards_ , looked up at Vermillion, and nodded. Freezing smoke drifted from her hands and feathered tail.

Reptiles never did well with the cold.

Luminesce still had an advantage over the snake and she wasn't about to waste it. Sneasel and Polisher took off in opposite directions. Luminesce disappeared into the darkness outside of the emergency lights in pursuit of her prey. Vermillion continued up the stairs to the light. She burst through the door onto the roof and raised a hand against the surge of superheated air that greeted her. Had she been in heels like usual, the hot wind would have knocked her over.

It was too be expected when a pokemon the size of a small house flew by close enough to share its body heat. Onyx, very much like her snake, was waiting for her arrival with Dracks, the ariados, at her feet. The Jewel faced the city and watched Ho-oh circle the tower. Her jacket flapped beside her, coddling her neck and thighs against the cold rainy drizzle. She didn't have to ask to know the fate of her First Lieutenant. The unwanted appearance of a Polisher meant only one thing.

Death.

The Black Jewel found it ironic, especially since the Polisher's motivation spawned from quite the opposite.

"So he's alive then," Onyx mused. " _Your precious god_."

Water rolled along the edge of her high collar and dripped off of the end. There was no other explanation for the Polisher's change of heart. Her moral compass still had a true north, pointing her down the road of salvation. It was a path Vermillion knew better than to take, but that choice was hers, and infringing upon a Polisher's autonomy was a bond breaker.

"You told me he was dead," Vermillion spat, trying to play off the discovery.

"He will be," Onyx declared, calling the bluff. She kept her eyes on Ho-oh, calculating the distance, height, and speed of the bird's passing. Vermillion stole a glance at the sun god. A dim rainbow tracer glittered behind the bird because of the splash of rain against her _light screen_. To ride a pokemon was to own it, and Vermillion had promised John that she would watch over his pokemon until his fight was over.

"Until then," she quickly picked up. "I've got a contract to uphold."

A cool sensation soothed Vermillion's skin as Crooks and Jinx materialized from the otherworldly plane over her shoulder. Drawn to the energy signature in the belt around her neck, they always knew where to appear when returning to the physical world and always came ready for a fight. Dracks clicked in a purr like warning. His thorax accents stiffened in battle preparation.

"You can't beat me," Onyx declared, pulling something out from the folds of her black cloak.

"I know," Vermillion answered. An assassin worked best in the shadows. Such bold faced confrontation put them at a disadvantage. "But I can still fuck you up pretty good." Her switch blade glinted in her hand. Crooks and Jinx's ghostly bodies swirled menacingly and Dracks heightened his hiss to a chattering growl. Onyx merely lowered her eyes from the sky. She smiled softly to herself as she cocked the M9 in her hand.

"I know," she admitted.

After all, a Polisher was still a Polisher, and that's why she wasn't going to leave it up to chance. Onyx whirled around. Jinx and Crooks immediately advanced, propelled by a _dark pulse_ to match her speed, but the Black Jewel's cloudy eye saw straight through them. Her jacket was still in mid flare when the shot rang out. The two gastly barely felt the bullet pass through them. They only saw the brass case spin through the air. For all that could not touch them, the same could not be said for the trainer behind them. Vermillion stumbled back. Her gamble, a losing one.

"Cover!" she shouted.

Jinx and Crooks needed no orders. They screamed forward, vanishing into traces of black smoke that harmlessly rolled down Onyx's still extended arm. Their bodies reformed next to Vermillion. Crook's dark and stormy center spread in a _shadow ball_ that formed a cloud of darkness. With a push from Jinx's _dark pulse_ , it spread outward into a swirling vortex that masked their trainer from sight. The mini tornado rose up to the sky before it vanished seconds later. Rain droplets drilled the wispy threads into the gravel. Not a pokemon or Polisher remained. Vanished, like the cloud they created.

Onyx slowly lowered her arm. Dracks stabbed a speared leg into the gravel with a gurgle that expressed his displeasure.

"Let them go," Onyx ordered as she tucked the Berretta back into its holster. "They won't make it far."

Down the stairwell in retreat, Vermillion feared the same.

She fell into the wall beside her, concealed in the safety of shadow one more but finding no comfort in its embrace. Sweat collected on her brow. Her hand trembled as she slowly removed it from her abdomen. Blood stained her hand from the bullet hole in her stomach.

Fuck.

Vermillion covered the wound again, clenched her teeth, and pushed off of the wall. She wobbled down the next flight of stairs, hand firmly grasped on the rail. Stopping wasn't an option. Neither was treating the wound. Onyx, or one of her pokemon, could be following. These few seconds in retreat might just give her the head start she needed to lose the trail. Pain streaked down her side. Vermillion hunched over and her hand, slippery with blood, couldn't hold the added weight. She caught her fall against the rail, smearing red along the wall from her wounded shoulder. The Polisher forced disciplined silence onto her grimace.

Who was she kidding? Any novice hunter could track this blood trail. Vermillion struggled onto her elbow, unable to straighten out of her hunch, and took the next series of steps one by one, pulling herself along the rail with her free arm. Jinx and crooks appeared in the darkness, drawn to the collar around their trainer's neck. With one look, they vanished again. This time, in search of their comrades. They needed help.

Because their trainer was dying.

Vermillion paused at the top of the next flight of stairs, panting heavily. Her breathing a traitor to her trade. The ghosts' departure automatically warmed her chilling body, giving her breath for the next descent.

She was an idiot. What the hell was she thinking taking on Onyx face to face? Apparently, nothing at all. What was she trying to prove up on that roof? That she was strong enough to stand equal with a Jewel? Please, she could slaughter any of them in their sleep given the proper amount of preparation. Retaliation was the real bitch.

Vermillion clutched the wound a little tighter. Every movement etched the metal deeper and deeper into her flesh. Keeping her hand in one place against the slickening bodysuit became difficult. She descended another flight of stairs, passing the level she battled Vaughn in. There was no way she'd be able to move around the carnage to get to the elevator. The rooftop only had stairwell access from the topmost floor. To get to the elevator, she'd have to go down yet another flight of stairs. The Polisher cringed. A smear of blood followed her. It traced back to her words with the enemy.

Was she really here because of a contract? Hardly. Most of the men in this city couldn't color within the lines let along sign their name on the dotted line, especially that shit faced wannabe brawler, John. Was it love then? Vermillion would have scoffed if she had the breath for it. She wasn't foolish enough to believe in such things anymore. Her distaste for the subject fueled her last few steps onto the landing, but the zeal quickly slipped away from her like the color in her face. She stumbled through the door leading to the next level elevator lobby. One step for balance and another for direction. Such simple tasks, yet more than the Polisher could take.

She had come impossibly far already.

Vermillion's legs lost their strength. She slumped into the closest wall, turned her back to it, and slowly slid down to the floor. One leg kicked out along the tile. The other buckled over it. Too weak to remove it, Vermillion focused on the gushing injury and pressed both hands against it. A shudder raked her gasp at the touch. Both eyes closed as if to hide from the pain. Jinx and Crooks materialized through the wall of the stairwell, guiding Luminesce the rest of the way. The sneasel limped into the lobby behind them, also clutching her side. Blood stained half of her face, forcing one eye shut. Relief softened her pained expression, the search for her trainer now over. Vermillion felt the cooling sensation of their arrival. Although grateful, their chill only worsened the growing ache in her body.

At least, the blood between her fingers was still warm.

With her pokemon in range, the Polisher raised a hand to her neck. Her breathing was slow and heavy now. Darkness curled her vision. It took several strokes of her weak fingers before she activated the automatic party withdrawal and all three pokemon de-energized, one short of a full party. Bezel was still too far to participate. Was he even still alive? She'd soon find out. Vermillion closed her eyes, trying to take several slow meditative breaths to calm herself, but they only aggravated her already strained muscles. She gave up on the technique as quickly as she started. Unable to move, she could only reflect on the choices that led her to this point.

"What do you want?"

That was the question Lieutenant Vaughn had asked her in the hallway. Vermillion looked down at her darkening abdomen. It was the question that put her waist deep in her own blood. The Polisher's lip twitched in an agonized snarl. At first, she couldn't come up with an answer. Right now, she only wanted painkillers and a few dozen staples. But that was a shallow answer to a deep and murky question filled with sea monsters and bad memories.

Vermillion closed her eyes in another ripple of pain that put tears to her skin. She opened them again, huffing weak breaths, and looked up at the ceiling, trying to see the sky beyond.

There was only darkness.

The Polisher accepted it. It was all she ever knew. She cursed John and his promise of a bright and shining afterlife. She cursed the stars and all that gazed at them.

But most of all, she cursed herself for creating a god powerful enough to shake even her wicked faith.


	51. Dead Men Walking: 5

**Dead Men Walking: 5**

Liam Valenis examined the blade of a _razor leaf_ as it pegged into the wall next to his head. The stiff serrated edges dug into the drywall better than the teeth of a chainsaw. Its slick flat face tossed the ace's reflection back at him. Veined like a living creature yet glossy like plastic, it was a simple thing, a single leaf, one capable of shaving off his scalp. Liam stuck his nose a little closer, watching the mechanics of life march around the leaf's edges as if they glowed. Photosynthesis was a dangerous thing.

"Fascinating," he murmured.

"Watch out!" John shouted.

Liam was pretty sure that "watching" was about all he was capable of at the moment. With glossy dilated eyes, a careless disposition, and an undisputable lag between mind and body, recognizing danger was just as difficult as avoiding it. _Sweet Scents_ had that effect on him. One whiff and poof! Liam wiggled his fingers at the leaf and giggled. He was stoned better than a graveler. John scruffed the ace by the bandana and yanked him backwards. Several more _razor leaves_ cut into the wall beside them. Tidbits of plaster trickled down to the ground. They swirled outwards as a roselia quickly pursued the two trainers.

Slowed by the weight of the drugs flooding his mind, Liam had plenty of time to reflect on the mission at hand while the world flew by in a multitude of colors and shapes. Rocky and Bullwinkle weren't the only ones Ruby sent to double cross his fellow Jewel. After the grunts failed to deliver Hell Raiser several weeks ago, Big Red needed to know that his plans to undercut Onyx wouldn't become a double edged sword. He sent his twin lieutenants, Quill and Jesse, with the grunts into the business tower. They cleared several levels by the time John, Marcus, and Liam accidentally bumped into them on the stairwell. With the power being cut, it was the only way up to the roof. But better the stairs than the elevator. That ride would have been more awkward than the music!

Trading accuracy for haste, John roughly swung Liam out of his way and onto the landing of the stairs below him. The stairwell was the worst place for a full party battle. Cramped, cornered, and with too many awkward footholds in between landings, chaos and confusion reigned supreme. Panting and panicked, John whirled around on the steps. He jerked his shoulder back to avoid a _pin missile_. The projectile bounced off of the concrete stair behind him. John flinched against the resulting shatter, covering his eyes from the debris, and thus, Roselia's second advance. The thorn pokemon leapt from the rail with _toxic spikes_ embedded in his flowered fists, but he wasn't the only pokemon on the field. Athena rushed in with a _brave bird_. They collided and disappeared over the railing.

Still reeling from the throw, Liam stumbled onto the lower landing. He didn't make it a few steps before Marcus caught him in the chest with one hand. It was a lovely hand, scarred and calloused as it was. Liam patted it graciously. Marcus clenched his fist around Liam's shirt to keep the ace in place and flashed a snarl at John.

"What are you doing?" he growled. "I told you to get him out of here. He's as high as a kite!"

"I'm trying!" John shouted back, but keeping up with so many pokemon fighting on the field wasn't easy.

As if to emphasize the point, Marco, the pidgeotto, suddenly soared up through the center of the stairwell, climbing a near vertical ascent with a _leaf storm_ roaring after him. Petals and leafs alike swirled within the narrow space and spread outward from the tornado. John raised a hand against the billowing wind. Heat rose up with it as Zoro, the combusken, and B.B., the teddiursa, attempted to keep the twins on the lower level. Quill managed to slip through. Burnt, smoking, and seeking revenge.

Marcus growled out a curse and shoved Liam halfway up the stairs. John dragged the ace the rest of the way, tripped over the cumbersome collection of legs, and went down on the landing above. Athena and Roselia rushed by in heated battle. They split apart in a gusty wash of greenery and feathers. John cursed the battlefield and its tight narrow spaces. Neither pidgeotto could properly spread their wings nor was there enough room to release a larger pokemon like Saul or Lopo with so many people on the stairs. And as for Charles, they were already tripping over themselves. Adding a linoone to the mix would only make it worse. Liam grabbed a handful of de-energized leaves and threw them up in the air.

"Don't you just love the fall?" he sighed. "Such lovely, lovely, grass pokemon."

Liam leaned over the edge of the landing and watched Jesse regroup with Quill and Roselia on the flight of stairs below. The bellossom in the lieutenant's arms stiffened the frawns of her skirt with a _leaf blade_. Jesse plucked off several and threw them with deadly accuracy at Marcus. An _ember_ met them in kind, incinerating the _blades_ before they hit their mark. The fighter winked lightly against the brush of soot. Zoro leapt across the center of the stairwell to stand next to him. John scrambled to his feet, righted Liam, and pushed him up a few more steps. Even when under the influence, John managed to keep the ace's feet from scuffing. Helping the inebriated must have been a pastime.

The battle shifted upwards again with the two trainer's ascent, bringing with it, Jesse's scyther. Without Zoro to hold the mantis back any longer, his wings made quick work of the open stairwell. He cut across the open air, only to jerk to a stop as B.B. grabbed his foot with one paw and the iron baluster with the other. Quill quickly kicked the teddiursa through the bars, dislodging Scyther and sending the bear into a free fall. Marcus quickly withdrew him before he fell out of range. John stopped as Marcus, the twins, and their collective pokemon once again came face to face on the level below.

"Keep going!" the fighter ordered.

"But what about you?" John yelled.

The building suddenly shook in a tremor. It was different than the others, originating from the roof as if something heavy had landed on it. Metal creaked unsteadily and hair line fractures suddenly spread down the walls. A dull roar echoed from the heavens, deep and heavy as if it belonged in the pit of hell.

"I'll hold them off," Marcus continued. Zoro jumped onto his shoulder and crouched at the ready with eyes as fiery as his feathers. It was a passion hot enough to stir even the intoxicated.

"I'll stay too," Liam insisted, "but only if somebody brought some snacks."

John quickly spun the ace away from the battle. He pulled the bandanna over Liam's face and tugged the riding goggles into place, reviving the outlaw of the underground once more. Any more exposure to the _sweet scent_ and Liam would start losing brain cells. Roselia hastened the process. He jumped onto the rail closest to John and Liam. He pursed a _grass whistle_ through his lips. John quickly covered the ace's ears with his hands and grimaced against the melodious notes. A _sweet scent_ alone wouldn't take Marcus down. He'd need an ursaring sized tranquilizer to outpace the hormones surging through his veins, but add a harp to soothe the raging beast, and even goliath didn't stand a chance.

John's knees went weak against the lulling notes but whistling wasn't just for grass pokemon. He chirped a melody of his own making, calling Marco and Athena to action. The pidgeotto raced by the thorn pokemon, forcing him to grab onto the rail to avoid being blown off, but the duel _gusts_ weren't enough. They couldn't dislodge him, but John could. Once more, the trainer grabbed Liam by the shoulders, spun him out of the way, and punched Roselia right off the rail.

Quill shouted, calling the aid of his bulbasaur climbing up the stairs, and reached out over the rail. He caught Roselia and would have fallen to his doom if it wasn't for the _vine whip_ tied around his waist. Jesse quickly summoned scyther as a shield and pulled her counterpart back to safety. It was the break Marcus was waiting for. He released Porthos next to him on the stairs.

"Go!" he insisted, glancing over his shoulder at the two trainers above him. "We can handle this!"

"Of course you can!" Liam interrupted. "That's why I'll help!"

He slouched into John, forcing the trainer to catch him. With arms full of celebrity swagger, John couldn't stop the ace from pulling two pokeballs from his belt. Liam threw them at Marcus and the fighter caught them, one in each hand. In a similar fashion, a _vine whip_ wrapped around each wrist. Bulbasaur pulled the vines tight, tugging Marcus' arms out in front of him.

"You'll regret the day you crossed me, Hell Raiser!" Jesse shouted from behind her pokemon.

Marcus pulled against his restraints, causing the ropes to tighten between them in a deadly game of Tug-O-War. Bulbasaur struggled to stay in place.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, ya crazy bitch," Marcus groaned. He glanced between his two raised and immobile fists. His thumbs couldn't reach the releases on the two pokeballs when they were enlarged. Yanking Bulbasaur towards him like a ball and chain might just shatter them if they collided the wrong way. Zoro chirped from his perch on the fighter's shoulder. Marcus glanced at him with a grin.

Finally, he recognized the perks of using pokemon in a pokemon battle!

Marcus summoned a long awaited battle cry, yanked bulbasaur off of his feet, and let his pokemon do the work. Zoro launched off of the fighter's shoulder and _double kicked_ the enemy flying at them back the way he came. The _vine whips_ , still attached to Marcus wrists, jolted the pokemon to a stop. They snapped altogether when Porthos _tackled_ Bulbasaur down the stairs. Now with more space between the two groups, Marcus opened both pokeballs at once. Beats and Sonya materialized. They looked backwards, surprised to find Marcus behind them, and found their trainer a level above. Liam waved at enthusiastically. Both volcano pokemon rolled their eyes and sighed.

They hated babysitting but they knew what they had to do, even if it involved protecting the tone deaf fighter. That was their trainer's will.

John quickly swatted down Liam's hand and pushed him higher up the stairs. With their rear flank covered, he could confidently continue the climb and find a safe spot to stow away the ace until his high dropped down to atmospheric levels. Liam had other plans. He leapt away from John and raced up the stairs shouting "Last one at the top buys the slowpoke tail!"

"Liam, wait!" John yelled, pausing to withdraw his pidgeotto, but the ace already had a head start and he wasn't about to give it up. A rescue mission hinging on life and death decisions was a dream come true for him. Throw in several challenging pokemon battles, a couple of best friends, and a few hallucinogenic drugs, and it was the greatest thrill Liam had in years. Never before had he been able to achieve such wild fulfillment on his own.

Friends made everything better.

The drugs may have also helped. Too bad they didn't enhance motor function. Mistaking a sign for the next level as one for rooftop access, Liam diverted out of the stairwell and into the elevator lobby. The sharp stench of blood was so strong that it even bit into his dulled senses. The ace swayed to a stop, pushed up his goggles, and pulled down his bandana.

He wasn't the only one in the lobby.

Vermillion, caught halfway unawares, quickly stood up with one hand to her stomach and the other clutching a hot knife in her hand. She glared at the masked figure with a look almost as deadly as the puncture soaking her side. Liam looked down at his chest, surprised he didn't find the handle of the blade sticking out of it. He looked at the Polisher again. Her glare didn't weaken even upon recognition of the ace's identity. One more step and she might just make his expectations a reality. Her eyes were red, almost as much as his own, and her face was a pale white. As vulnerable as Vermillion looked, Liam didn't test her.

Was she another player in this game or one of the bosses?

It may have been the _sweet scent_ instilling paranoia, but Liam couldn't move. A single flinch and that knife would fly faster than one of his pokeballs. Were there more like her waiting just around the bend? Would the person who wounded her be back to finish the job? Was the big bad boss cheating and coming down to meet them before they leveled up? A sudden and horrible realization knocked the ace so hard from his golden perch that his thoughts went six feet under.

Would he die with no more lives to spare?

The drug's effects weren't so _sweet_ anymore.

John suddenly entered the lobby from the stairwell. He glanced at Liam, confused at the sudden pause, until he laid eyes on the sleeping beauty in front of them. His gasp was silent, but Liam still heard it. It was so strong that it stopped even the ace's pounding heart. John raced over to Vermillion's side. Liam didn't try to stop him. How could he when John leapt into action without pause or hesitation? The trainer flew by so quickly it was as if his pidgeotto had carried him across the lobby with wings as white as the pureness of his soul. Those wings blinded Liam and his two tone heart.

For Vermillion, they were the only things bright enough to twinkle through the darkness. She finally saw the stars and realized how beautiful they were. The polisher gave into the rushing light. Her body relaxed and she slipped away from the wall. John rushed in and caught her, guiding their descent to the floor. His broad back shielded her in a protective cocoon. His hands cradled her back and neck, easing the tension out of her body and into his powerful hands. From his embrace, Vermillion turned her fading emerald eyes up at him. They glittered even when under the shadow of the mountain above her.

"I should have let you die in the Cage," Vermillion said with a feigned curl of her lip. "Now, look what that mistake has cost me." John traced the blood on her suit down to her side where her hand feebly attempted to cover the hole. He quickly placed his hand over both in one gentle but firm press.

"I'm sorry," he said, measuring her pain to sarcasm ratio, and thus, the extent of the injury. "Next time, I'll try to be more pitiful."

"You fucking idiot," Vermillion scoffed. John lifted his hand to exam and possibly treat the wound but Vermillion dissuaded him with a hiss. He quickly pulled back so as not to hurt her but that wasn't why she snarled. Liam could see it in the way she squirmed in his grasp, like a child with fever, helpless and furious all at the same time. She was humiliated and desperate for his help.

"We have to get you to a hospital," John insisted.

Vermillion could have said the same. She saw the blood around John's wrists. Champions of virtue and their accursed bloodletting. Would John ever think of himself first? Vermillion shifted, forcing John into stillness to avoid accidentally aggravating her condition. She slowly touched her hand to his arm, disgusted with the decrepit status of the bandage around his burned palm more than the puncture wounds around his wrists.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" she whispered.

John took her hand in his and held her cheek with the other. She unconsciously leaned into it and he wiped away the blood near her eye with his thumb.

"Not this time," he whispered back.

Vermillion's eyes opened a little wider against the tender stroke of his hand. She blushed, a glimmer of life, and pride, surging back into her cold features.

"Go play nursemaid somewhere else," the polisher growled. "I'll live."

"Not if you keep bleeding like this," John corrected. He experienced a lapful of blood like this before and it made his hands tremble to think about it. "I'm not leaving you."

John then looked up at Liam with pleading eyes, but the ace had nothing to offer, in comfort or care. He didn't have any medical training or healing pokemon. And even if he did, Vermillion would snap off his fingers the moment he offered them to her aid. She didn't trust him and Liam couldn't trust himself when under the influence of a status condition. All the money, influence, and pokemon prowess a trainer could offer and he was still helpless, now more than ever.

"Liam!" John yelled. The ace jumped to attention. "The case!"

John nodded at the emergency firehose case built into the wall. "There might be a first aid kit in there!"

Liam quickly stumbled over to it, fumbled with the latch, and quickly resorted to more primitive means of opening it. He smashed the glass and grabbed the first aid kit hidden in the back. John reached out a bloody hand to take it. Liam stared at it, losing strength against it. He weakly held out the kit. John took it, set it on the floor, and opened it with one hand. Well accustomed to the supplies inside, he dressed Vermillion's wound the best he could. All Liam could do was watch. Despite John's best efforts, Vermillion's lips grew paler. The blood was so bright against the white gauze . . .

Was the plot line of this adventure truly that of a game, or was it the final act of a tragedy?

Vermillion attempt to push John's efforts away but it only drew him closer. John refused to give up. He never did. Liam tilted his head slightly.

Maybe it was a love story?

A tremor shook the building again. Something burst and the sound of rushing water came through the wall. Several pipes throughout the building must have broken. The infrastructure of the business tower was compromised. Just what sort of battle raged above? Was it truly just between pokemon?

"Get out of here," Vermillion ordered, "before the whole building comes down."

"Didn't I tell you already?" John smiled. "I'm not very good at running away."

Liam smiled despite himself, envious of the man who had everything.

Vermillion attempted to look away. John wouldn't let her, not even when another rumble shook the building. His eyes locked onto hers, holding them in place as if commanding something inside of her to stay still in his arms. Just where exactly did he go when he looked into her eyes? How far could he reach? Judging from that flame like flicker, all the way to the end of the universe.

"This is my fate," Vermillion acquiesced. "Leave me. It's more than I deserve."

John shifted his arms around the Polisher and picked her up. He cradled her like a bridegroom, balancing her feather weight effortlessly.

"This world may be cruel," John explained. "But I don't have to be."

Liam chuckled. Judging from the look in Vermillion's eyes, John couldn't have been crueler to tease her with the thought of a life beyond the darkness.

Vermillion blushed again. This time, the color stayed in her cheeks. She turned away with a small plump of her lips.

"Fine, I'll let you help me," she softly relinquished from the bosom of his embrace. Her eyes darted to Liam and narrowed at his intrusion, "but only because it's part of our contract." John cocked his head curiously at the statement but quickly redirected the stare. Marcus emerged from the stairwell door into the lobby to check in on the others. He brushed several embers off of his shoulders. Sonya and Beats must be burning well.

As expected.

The same couldn't be said for Marcus. He leaned against the wall with one hand. Sweat beaded his temple. The gash on his ankle couldn't be ignored for much longer and he knew it.

"Her again?" Marcus grunted, gesturing to the woman in John's arms. She growled right back at him.

"One of the good guys," John explained, noting the suspicious look in the fighter's eye. "And she's hurt."

"And you think you're going to carry her all the way through the threshold? What about your bird?" Marcus scoffed. He straightened out of his limp, lumbered over, and stopped in front of the pair. "I'll take her."

"What?" Vermillion and John echoed.

Marcus flushed. Despite his reputation, he knew when to tag out of a fight. Most of the time, he just chose not to. "Whatever the hell is going on up on that roof, I guarantee you pokemon are involved and I ain't no trainer." He looked down at his pokebelt and the pokemon recovering within. "Not yet." His eyes once again lifted to John. "But you are, and I can't trust _that_ bastard to fight on his own." Liam strolled over in confidence, slipped on the smooth linoleum, and caught himself on the fighter's shoulder, proving his point. Marcus closed his eyes and pressed his teeth together, summoning an unusually calm bout of self-control in the face of a struggle too serious to leave to pride.

"I'll take care of her," Marcus repeated. "Do what you have to, but I expect you to catch up with us when this is all over!"

Something glittered in John's eyes as he looked upon the fighter and it prickled Vermillion's skin. She stirred in protest but the contract was already in. John passed off the polisher and Marcus took her in his arms, not nearly as gently as the trainer, but with as much awkward delicacy as he could muster. At least, when pressed against Marcus' hot bare chest, Vermillion had something to distract her from the pain and John's continued fussing. She could only handle so much shame.

"Go," she commanded, "but I'm cashing in your debt." She slowly touched a hand to her neck and removed a pokeball. Both weakly dropped into her lap, the excitement of their reunion wearing thin. "Find Bezel," she said, "and take down the bitch that did this to me."

John took the pokeball and nodded.

Liam clapped his hands together.

"No longer a quest to escape the dungeon," he exclaimed, "but to slay a dragon!"

Marcus turned away, muttering something Liam was sure was inappropriate to their cause. Unaffected by the fantastical outburst, and the ace in general, John waited until Marcus and Vermillion entered the stairwell before arming himself for this "quest". He picked up the remains of the first aid kit and dressed his own injuries. Bandage after bandage rolled around his wrists and hands. Swift powerful motions made quick work of the dojo wrapping technique. John then clenched his bandaged hands into fists and looked up. His eyes met Liam's and the fire within could have forged an entirely new persona of the trainer, one that would have given even Marcus a run for his money, but John was still John in the end. He released Charles, ruffled the linoone's fur, and presented Bezel's pokeball.

"I need you to find a friend," he instructed.

Charles sniffed the ball, took it between his teeth, and raced off in pursuit of the scent. Now, it was the trainers' turn.

"Let's go," John said before he jogged into the stairwell and up the stairs, leaving his partner to follow. His steps fluttered like the ends of a red cape. They made Liam smile.

He wished he could fly like that.

Now alone in the lobby, Liam looked down at his hand. It trembled. More than five fingers wiggled back at him. He was starting to see double, and it may have been the four missing slots on his pokebelt, but Liam was starting to feel unbalanced. No bandana or goggles would help him now.

The ace quickly closed his hand into a fist, blinked back the shadows crawling into his vision, and hurried after John.


	52. Dead Men Walking: 6

**Dead Men Walking: 6**

Mountains.

John knew he'd never see them again.

But the rock wall rising in front of him came pretty close.

John and Liam emerged from the stairwell, onto the rooftop, and into the shadow of an onix too big to be contained by the sands of the earth. Heavy chunks of armored body segments rolled and churned into battle position, grating through the thin gravel skin of the roof to the concrete and metal below. Vibrations ran through the floor as the rock snake moved, rattling bone and brain from here to ground level. John wobbled against the gyrating floor, surprised the entire level didn't collapse down to the first floor. Naga, the onix, wouldn't have noticed the drop if it did.

Rock type pokemon were known to live for centuries and this one had passed its prime, trading the spring of youth for the dangerous maturity of experience. Mistakes were little, and those that did manifest, were quickly compensated with strategy. Centuries of battling and burrowing the deepest mines and darkest pits hardened and smoothed Naga's skin to diamond like proportions. His dark nearly black body glistened like his trainer's name. He had driven deep into the earth in his explorations. Deep enough to awaken some of the ancient evils sleeping within.

They challenged and tested the snake's traditions of victory and brutality. Finding him of similar ilk, they bestowed upon him the dark and dangerous secrets of the underground, which had at times in Naga's early learnings, cost him several links in his body. Onyx, the only Royal brave enough to search out the origin of her malevolence, had been there to witness the worst of them. She found the snake weakened, but even then, Naga nearly killed her during the encounter. He couldn't let a lowly human live after witnessing his shame.

But the killing blow never struck and Onyx never admitted defeat. Instead, she offered a blood stained hand at redemption. Around it, Naga felt the same ominous omnipresent shadow that smoked around the ancients. Their _pressure_ was almost identical. It was then that Naga realized they had been drawn to one another. The woman in black and her enchanted underworld, had served his greed well.

Humans made wonderful slaves.

But some weren't so intimidated.

"Take out the lures!" John instructed before he dashed off towards the nearest glowing spire.

Liam clapped his hands together and spun. "I love fishing!" he exclaimed. "Can I use my golden rod?" After the first rotation, the ace realized his partner was gone. John never even heard the question, but Naga did.

The great serpent slowly turned his head at the interruption. His eyes were barely discernable from his body, as if he peered through a perpetual squint. Burrowing in the lightless tunnels of the earth didn't require sight or sound. Vibrations hummed through the nerve endings in Naga's body. Their rigid crystalline structure enhanced every wavelength. He felt his way through the stone and sands of the earthly crust with the accuracy of sonar. And thanks to the secrets of the ancients, he could read the energies of the universe. They glowed in a spectrum of colors, and when combined together, the snake could see as clearly as a pidgeot's _keen eye_ in the day. Even more so at times.

John's dash across the rooftop, light footed as it was, tapped louder than dance shoes across Naga's senses. The giant snake shifted his body. It was a mere casual shift in posture. One that flattened Liam against the wall to avoid it. But the ace could see special things too, fuzzy and multiplied as they were, and what he saw on the rooftop between John and Naga, was a fight between a bird and a worm.

Albeit, a very large worm and a very small bird.

Naga dragged a length of his body across John's path but the trainer didn't slow. He placed a hand on the snake's body, vaulted over it, and landed cleanly on the other side. Naga roared in fury. The snake never allowed himself to be summoned unless it was a truly momentous occasion. For a human to touch even the dust of his skin was blasphemy. Naga's voice rumbled across the city. It strummed through the body as if rattling dimensions. John was used to the feeling. He jumped off of the ground and sucked in his breath as a _stone edge_ rushed behind him with the force of a subway train. It caught the billowing fold of his shirt, slapping it away, a thread shy of knocking the trainer off course.

But it still missed.

Naga hated birds.

What gave them the right to fly so high above him?

The giant serpent lifted his head out of the failed strike, and this time, put effort into the pursuit. He slapped another length of his body in front of John, cutting off the trainer's path to the nearest lure. It bounced John right off of his feet and he fell backwards in a shower of gravel. The building trembled. So did Liam's legs. He clutched the brick wall of the stairwell entrance, neck short and arms wide, as if the wall against his back would protect him from the building's inevitable collapse.

"Naga!" Onyx rebuked, just now realizing that several bugs had drawn the attention of her monster. But the snake was insistent. There was something about this human that pestered him, like an itch in the deepest crags of his rocky body. He coiled around John's position, cutting off the trainer's escape. His chunky body left a two foot gap between his segments and the human. Naga couldn't see in the visual spectrum, but with his second sight created by the interpretations of physical and energized wavelengths, he saw the human clearly and realized why he couldn't stand the touch of him.

The aura around John glowed in a sparkling rainbow like effect. Color after color flashed and flared around his skin like a pokemon on fire. Its flaming nature matched that of the bird in the sky and resembled the auras of the other ancients. Not Naga's primal tutors, but the ones that came from the sky: made of color, light, and wind. _They_ were the ones that banished the dark natured ancients to the deep. _They_ were the ones that cursed the snake's kind to work beneath the earth,

beneath humans.

To kill this particular human, one of the Champions of the Sky, would be an honor.

John winced against the sharp gravel cutting into his forearms and glared at the worm towering over him. Its rocky body formed the walls of a deepening pit that blocked out even the smallest traces of light seeping through the storm. The growing darkness only made John's eyes shine brighter. As if understanding the roots of Naga's power, John whistled, cutting through the sound barrier with lightning like force. Its sweet whimsical call pierced the air with a ringing echo that sent Naga reeling backwards in pain.

Ho-oh, gliding around the tower at a safe distance from attacks, answered her Champion's summons. She sharply banked towards the tower in an aerial maneuver meant for fighter jets. No longer fighting against the pull of the lures, she rocketed for the rooftop. Her shriek filled the city just as loudly as Naga's cry. Nothing could hide from the light radiating off of her feathers, not even the beasts writhing in the darkest reaches of hell. Naga thrashed and bellowed, trying to shake the sound from his head. The rocky segments of the serpent's body grated against one another, mimicking the vibrations of his roar. He could not see the approaching _sky attack_ nor hear his trainer's warnings.

Naga lifted his head, right into the rainbow pokemon's wing as it sliced across the rooftop. His chin bounced against the floor. Smashed gravel puffed up into dust under his weight. John's head popped up within the folds of living rock seconds later. An expert in climbing, he easily scaled Naga's body, jumped to the other side, and ran for the edge of the building, this time, towards Ho-oh's intended path. She spotted her Champion easily. His spirit looped and flared in bursts of multicolored fire like rings around his body. The _pressure_ of his pious intent spread the flames into a unified sheath of armor across his skin.

John didn't need to shut down the lures if Ho-oh was willing to stay and fight of her own accord. He only needed to support her, and the best way to do that, was upon her back. Ho-oh circled around and lined up with the approaching edge of the roof. She lowered just below it. John could make the jump. He knew it. The trainer leapt onto the concrete edge: fearless, focused, and completely unaware of the battle that had been raging before he had arrived.

"Now!" Onyx shouted.

For all the power and majesty a legendary pokemon possessed, the bird's seclusion had taken its toll. It had been too long since Ho-oh truly battled. She didn't understand the lengths her enemies were willing to go to win. Liam did. He grabbed John by the waist and threw him away from the ledge. At the same time, Naga launched off of the rooftop beside them. He clamped onto Ho-oh's passing wing, dropping her as if a millstone had been tied around her neck with a shoe string. They fell, disappearing from the skyline as if by _teleportation_. Ho-oh screamed. John screamed and Onyx's features relaxed with tyrannical confidence.

Liam jerked his head back to avoid the elbow that swung for it. The blow wasn't intentional, just like Marcus never intended to _body slam_ his competitors three feet into the stands when he competed, but it happened anyway. John thrashed to be released. The ace hastily complied. John was too powerful to hold back. Every ounce of his dojo fighting instinct surged to the surface when he ran to the edge of the building, leaned over, and grimaced as Naga and Ho-oh hit the ground.

Water, broken pavement, and a shriek worthy of a dying breed filled the air. The street split in half under the weight of the giants. Several street lights tipped over. Glass shattered, foundations cracked, and the business tower shuddered. Already swaying, Liam rode the tremor and stayed on his feet. John lost his balance and hit the ground. It was the only head start the ace would get. John couldn't be held back or dissuaded from his mission, but his pokemon weren't suited for a battle of behemoths. The only way Liam could stop the trainer from jumping head over heels into disaster was by getting in front of him, because, despite the trainer's powerful will, John was too polite to push the kid down the slide in front of him.

Liam ran up in front of John and snapped a pokeball off of his belt.

"I'll help Ho-oh," he yelled over a pale of thunder in the distance. "You take care of Onyx."

John blinked back the shock. "What!? I can't do that."

"Right now, you're better suited for the task!"

"But you know what kind of trainer I am!" John stuttered, now back on his feet with Sensei's criticisms still fresh in his mind.

"Exactly!" Liam replied

The ace wouldn't admit that his hands were trembling, even as he slipped the riding googles over his eyes. The world started spinning the moment they left the stairwell and Liam wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the act. Taking on a Royal Jewel in this state was impossible, especially with only two pokemon to spare, but cornering one of her monsters in a two vs. one battle was much more realistic. Liam fingered the pokeball in his hand. Inebriated as he was, the ace never failed to spot a weakness in an enemy. Naga went wild upon hearing a little whistle. What would he do when confronted with a symphony? If music agitated the giant black snake, then Liam had the perfect pokemon to sing him a song.

The ace placed a hand on John's shoulder. It was heavy with the weight of trust.

"I believe in you," he said.

And it was the truth.

Liam understood that he wasn't the hero of this story. If anything, he was probably one of the bad guys considering this all started because of him. But John . . . he was the shining star written about in story books. If anyone could be a guardian angel or a knight in shining armor, it was him. After all, John was the one who saved his life back in Boulder. Without that stumbling, fumbling, balloon wanting, giant twelve year old, Liam would have never found his way out of the underground.

Liam roughly patted John on the back, turned away, and hopped onto the ledge.

"What are you doing?" John shouted after him, suddenly terrified that the ace had abandoned all hope. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Liam turned back and winked out a smile.

"You aren't the only one with a set of wings," he explained.

The ace snapped his pokeball shut, pulled the bandana over his face, and fell backwards off of the ledge. John gasped but the alluring notes of a flygon's vibrating wings quickly cut it short. Lucy, the flygon, flew up into the sky. As part of Liam's recreational series, she was more attuned to races and ribbon contests, but every pokemon in the ace's collection knew how to hold their own. Liam clung onto the flygon's back as she streamed past the rooftop. Her ballad peaked when she reached the pinnacle of her ascent and quieted when she sharply raced downwards to the aid of the legendary pokemon. Rain flicked off of her long sleek tail before she, and her trainer, disappeared.

Another materialization hastily took her place.

No longer concealed by the giant body of her elemental demi-god, Onyx stood out clearly against the pale gray backdrop of the clouds behind her. As did the sceptile beside her. Its tail was like that of a spear point, sharpened and pointed at the end with dark green needles shorter at the tip than the base. They were stiff, more like cactus thorns than leaves. They matched the blades jutting out of the forest pokemon's arms. A single blade adorned each arm. They were smooth and curved like the edge of a scimitar. Never sheathed, they were always held at the ready. Sceptile stood taller than the Jewel, although the lazy emotionless slant of his eyes set them as equals. A deep green pattern saddled his back, neck, and head like a swirl of ritual tattoos.

Onyx kept her cold stare at the edge of the rooftop where the ace had disappeared.

"Don't let him interfere," she commanded.

Sceptile dashed off without a rustle of his tail. He crawled over the ledge and disappeared out of sight. Without the tension of battle, the rooftop quieted, leaving only two people standing in the stormy drizzle. Onyx continued to stare out into the city, watching the distant struggle of their pokemon as if through her evil serpent's eyes. She didn't turn to John but he was sure she noticed every breath he made. Once more, they were face to face. Should he run like in the gallery, rush down to the streets, or trust in his friend?

John took a slow meditative breath and turned away from the ledge. He slowly aligned himself with the Black Jewel. The wet gravel crunched underneath his steps. It sloshed as he slowly came to a stop.

"Back for revenge?" Onyx asked. She didn't bother to look at him. The threat wasn't real either way.

"Would it make a difference?" John shrugged.

"I could kill you," the Jewel continued, "but it looks like your existence in the afterlife is as intolerable as it is in the land of the living."

John slowly popped the friend ball off of his belt. "You know, you were right, down in the gallery," he exclaimed. He rolled the ball thoughtfully in his hands and stopped at the release. "I have nowhere else to go."

Onyx tilted her chin upward in thought, trying to remember when she could have cared about this pathetic excuse of a trainer long enough to engage him in legitimate conversation. The time when he spontaneously combusted into multicolored fire came to mind. Somewhere in between she may have tried to convince him to come quietly into her collection, if only temporarily, until Ho-oh came to claim its mark.

"Sorry, but the deal's off," she flatly stated. "You've already given me what I wanted."

Onyx walked towards the edge of the roof to get a better look at the battle below.

"Not everything," John quickly corrected. He opened the ball and the materialization stopped Onyx dead in her tracks. She slowly looked over at John, bypassing him instantly for the pokemon standing beside him:

Lopo.

A hound of hell. A houndoom with horns capable of going head to head with god himself. His armor was built from the skeletons of the dead. He was a creature of the night that gave life to death, created form from nothing, and filled the darkness with a reason to fear it. Onyx was the _Black_ Jewel. Her heart was drawn to darkness. As magnificent as the light of a legendary pokemon may be, it wasn't the same as the all-consuming veil that existed before time itself. When compared, she would always return to the shadows.

Onyx turned away from the rooftop.

Unsatisfied with the reaction, John placed his hand along the hound's neck. It made the hair on the Royal's neck stand on end. She clenched her teeth in a silent snarl. The only hand that should stroke that deadly masterpiece was hers and from a throne of black crystal no less! Lopo was an older pokemon, but old things were often scarier than the rest. Naga, was the perfect example, but the serpent didn't control the darkness. He merely lived in it.

Onyx turned to John, reached into the folds of her jacket, and touched the butt of her M9. The trainer didn't move although he was well aware of what lay within. In fact, he almost seemed to smirk, with his hand still upon the beast. Lopo, too, remained poised. Always, his eyes watching. Unmoving. Unblinking.

It gave her chills.

Onyx could see that she would no longer be able to tame this beast. He could not be broken. His loyalty would lead only to death. It wasn't a gift that John presented, but a challenge: a pokemon battle, with his hound to lead him.

She could end this right now. Her hand was already on the winning move, but to win a pokemon battle against the houndoom would be to win against darkness itself. She would be crowned a true master of darkness, Queen of the Underworld. There would be nothing to fear because she would become fear itself. Even Naga would bend his head underneath her hand.

The dark ancients would finally have their own Champion.

Onyx slowly dropped her hand from her jacket to the pokebelt around her waist.

"I accept."

Lopo's tail flicked sharply to the side. It stilled against the gentle pressure of John's bandaged hand.

"So, what shall it be?" Onyx continued. She ran her fingers over her party pokemon, reading the lines of each pokeball like Brail. "A battle of fangs?"

Onyx snapped off a pokeball. "Or of fire?"

John smiled softly to himself. He stared at the Jewel with a twinkle in his eye.

"How about a battle of the heart?" he proposed.


	53. Guardian Angels: 1

**Guardian Angels: 1**

They fell.

Together, Naga, the onix, and Ho-oh, the legendary bird, plummeted to earth.

They struck the ground in a city shattering collision. Buildings trembled, streets buckled, and as far as the citizens were concerned, a meteor just struck the heart of the Warehouse District. Naga shifted out of the crater he had created. Not a scratch or chip defaced his polished black body. Still clamped onto Ho-oh's wing, the giant serpent growled in pleasure, grinding feathers between his jaws like dried herbs. It was a shame they had not become entangled in the decent. Had Naga landed on top of Ho-oh, he would have crushed her hollow bones upon impact, and ended the fight immediately.

But that would have been too easy.

Ho-oh weakly squawked, unable to free herself under the weight of Naga's heavy and mighty bite. The rocky serpent repositioned his lower half so that the brightly colored bird somewhat dangled from his mouth. He couldn't lift her as far off of the ground as he would have liked. She was large, and uncooperative, but her weak squawks and futile flapping made up for it.

Naga couldn't have been more pleased with himself. He, the Black Burrower, had finally chained one of the ancients of the sky to the ground, something not even the dark monsters buried in the far reaches of the earth had accomplished. And it was all thanks to a human no less!

Onyx had promised him treasure, and now, he finally had it. Naga purred to think of what they could accomplish together. With the Jewel's help, he might truly be able to unlock the secrets of the ancients. Maybe that's why the rituals always backfired? They weren't meant to be performed alone. . .

Ho-oh attempted to wriggle out of the snake's iron like hold. Naga shrugged off her scratching talons. Her claws couldn't hope to cut through the diamond like hardness of his body. Still, she tried, and the show was so pathetic that Naga let her continue. With one wing firmly pinned in place, the other flapped wildly around, trying to catch any air that it could. It wasn't enough. Not enough to lift her from the ground or muster up an attack. She'd have to utilize other means of escape. The rainbow pokemon angled sunlight towards her chest. She rustled her feathers and sparked a flame that ravenously consumed her whole body. Flames lashed and whipped across the street. They stretched and grew as if burning the air itself. Elements of a _sky attack_ fused with the bird's _sacred fire_ , pulling the inferno upwards into the sky.

Anything caught in its path would be incinerated. From Lucy's back, Liam quickly redirected the flygon out of the flaming twister's ascent. They skimmed the face of a building, shaking windows in their panes as they passed. Several shattered on ground level against the rising _pressure_. Amidst the raging assault, Naga's black form only darkened against the light.

He barely felt the heat against his skin. His rocky body was hardened by too much evil to be exorcised by a single holy rite. Even if John were here, and the rainbow pokemon had her Champion, it would have made no difference. Naga had become so much like the darkest reaches of the earth that Ho-oh couldn't even sear the lining of his mouth, eyes, or nose. Not even a demon of the same make could've hoped to overpower the black serpent. His knowledge of the universal energies was second only to the mythical pokemon of the underground.

Ho-oh could not defeat him.

But maybe a creature of both worlds could?

Half angel, half demon, Liam knew he was Ho-oh's only chance at escape.

The fire spout ended and Ho-oh sagged in Naga's mouth, the phoenix unable to rise from the ashes of her flames. The serpent's head and neck glowed from the inside out, as if his body was some sort of evil magical stone that absorbed the energy of the flames to sustain his own life-force. Exhausted, Ho-oh shifted her beak, unable to open it in another cry. Liam and Lucy were more than willing to take up her voice.

If a single whistle had thrown the serpent into a rage on the roof because of his hypersensitivity to sound, what would happen if they raised a whole symphony?

Lucy peeled away from the buildings and spun circles around Naga's head. Her wings, flapping 90 beats per second, hummed with the throbbing beat of an amplifier. The air twisted and bent around her wings. The hum grew louder and sharper with every movement until distinctive notes formed. Her flight became a song, one known throughout the world to pacify the roar of a sandstorm. Able to sense even the most microscopic of sounds after spending years tunneling the silent depths of the underground, Naga felt the musical wavelengths as if he were a water type struck by lightning. He bellowed, dropping Ho-oh to the ground, and threw back his head as if to bash the vibrations from his skull.

Liam hugged Lucy tighter. Pressed against her back and between both wings, he felt the song in his body as much as he heard it. Custom earplugs built into the ace's goggles, protected his hearing, but even then, the flygon's song numbed him down to the core. Liam felt nothing, heard nothing, but the battle before him.

Blinded by the sudden rush of sound, Naga threw his head from side to side, trying to swat the mystic pokemon from the air. He growled and snarled, using his voice to counteract the music. When that didn't work, he rolled his body against the ground like he would when tunneling. The scratching movements drowned out the music flooding his senses and he quickly honed in on the flygon's wavelengths. She swept by in another pass and Naga snapped after her in several viper inspired strikes. His heavy rock jaws clapped with deafening clarity. Lucy spun away, narrowly missing the latest strike, her music reduced to background noise against the clamors of battle.

Tremors shook the street. They were enough to stir Ho-oh back into action. Having regained some of her strength in the flygon's distraction, the legendary bird flapped her wings against the ground, trying to push herself up onto her feet. One wing struggled to bend properly. There was a chance it was broken. Ho-oh was too desperate to consider the possibility. She frantically tried to stand. If she could get to her feet, she'd be that much farther from the ground and all that dwelt upon it.

Or burrowed within it.

The breezy brush of feathers and tap of stamping feet pecked Naga's sensitive nerves in warning. He felt the rainbow pokemon's revival and quickly turned away from the sky back to the ground. His tail rolled over itself like the slap of a ship rope. Each rocky nub rhythmically pounded into the pavement as a _smack down_ traveled in a wave down the serpent's body and caught Ho-oh across the back, smashing her down before she could take flight. Her cry crashed like thunder from the storm above. It spoke of pain felt beyond any physical sensation. A wound of the heart that gave reason to all of the camouflage, distance, and isolation of her kind. Ho-oh had come to this world for the sake of her champion, but she wasn't a pokemon built to fight.

Luckily, she had a friend that was.

"Aim for the head!" Liam shouted. "And give it all you got!"

Lucy sucked in a mouthful of air, swung her head for added force, and unleashed a _dragon breath._ Bluish purple flames erupted from her lips in a fiery torrent. It splashed against the back of Naga's head, spreading outward like a fine spray of water. Embers drizzled down to the street. They popped like firecrackers when they cooled, bouncing off of the serpent's glossy body in a dazzling display of sparks. Part fire, part electricity, the energy tickled Naga's nerves, and not in a smooth pleasant way like Ho-oh's _sacred fire_. He whirled around, tossing off the remains of the attack with a swing of his great head. Lucy quickly darted above it. The surrounding cityscape wasn't so lucky. Naga nicked the edge of the business tower and a chunk of foundation flew across the street. It pegged the nearest fire hydrant, knocking it off its pedestal easier than a chess piece. A geyser of water shot up into the sky and Lucy quickly pulled away from the spray.

Liam glanced over his shoulder in their retreat. Naga eyed the nearby spout with displeasure but didn't bother slithering away from the water now rushing towards him. If anything, it only helped his cause. Ho-oh stirred as the water flowed underneath her but it wasn't enough to get off of the ground again. Liam squeezed Lucy's back. If enough water soaked into Ho-oh's feathers, she might not be able to get up at all, let alone fly. A single aerial assault wasn't enough to save her. Naga was too powerful. What they needed were boots on the ground. The ace glanced down at the flooding street and smiled. It lifted the bandana higher onto his cheeks.

"Bring us around, Lucy!" Liam instructed. He pulled the last pokeball off of his belt. "I'm counting on you, Hammy!"

Liam threw the pokeball into the air. It cleared Lucy and spun, popping open to release the energy inside. Hamilton, the swampert, materialized two stories over open air and dropped out of the sky. He landed with all four feet on the ground and asphalt plated underneath him. It slated like a field of crashing icebergs as an _earthquake_ rushed forward, cracking cement and civilization in a wave of rubble that struck Naga harder than a tsunami. The serpent's enormous body absorbed the shock, unconsciously shielding Ho-oh from the surge. Car alarms sounded, lights flickered, and somewhere up above, the legs of a water tower broke. Metal creaked, snapped, and the tower broke over the edge of a roof.

Gallons upon gallons of water cascaded over the building and fell for the street, casting a silent shadow over those below. Ho-oh winced at it, scrambled to her feet, and managed to hop backwards out of the way before it struck. Naga wasn't so lucky. Stiffened by the shock of the _earthquake_ , he took the wave head on. The broken earth instantly turned to mud and his body involuntarily shifted under its own rounded heaviness. He lost balance and hit the ground in a splash of dirty water. Hamilton charged through the flooding street towards the giant, unafraid of the serpent's size or durability.

Tugboats may be small compared to the tankers they carried, but they were always the ones leading the charge.

Weakened by the barrage of attacks, Naga recognized the threat the swampert possessed and lifted his head from the ground. Water dripped from his chin and ran down his neck like a blood stain. He swung his tail across the ground. It scraped and razed the buckled pavement. Hamilton jumped, hoping to hop over the attack, but the onix's body was too thick. Naga's tail clipped Hamilton's legs, spinning him right out of his dodge. The swampert landed heavily and the moment he was on his feet again, another sweep came faster than the first, striking him in the side. He flew across the street and crashed through a window display, going counter deep into a storefront. Merchandise and furniture cracked and tumbled to a stop around him.

Hamilton grunted and pushed out of a bed of debris, wincing against the multitude of bruises already discoloring his skin. Something may have fractured in the crash but this wasn't the time to worry about it. Hamilton shook the glass from his back, climbed out of the wreckage, and back onto the street. People dislodged from the fight scrambled away from him, or rather, the monster that hunted him.

Hamilton gasped, narrowly dodging a _stone edge_ as it rushed past him. Naga stabbed his head into the store, widening the hole even further. He lifted out of it, smashing through brick and plaster with a roar. Hamilton watched helplessly in dismay. For all the battles he had been in, for all of the violence he endured, the swampert had never seen such raw destruction.

This wasn't a pokemon, but a monster that could only be defeated by a pokemon as powerful as itself.

A monster that Liam had to stop at all costs.

With Naga's head raised to the sky, Lucy saw an opening and soared in, tail sharpened and hardened with the same mystical energy that caused her wings to sing. She flipped and cracked a _dragon tail_ across the back of the serpent's head. It snapped forward and Naga's body shifted in recoil. Hamilton saw his chance to unbalance the snake using the slippery water logged street as a catalyst. He sucked in a deep breath and spat out a _hydro cannon_. The jet of pressurized water hit Naga at the curve of his body where he stabilized his top and bottom halves. It pushed the snake off balance better than a spheal on a slippery boogie board. Naga crashed to the ground, knocking down a street light and demolishing a nearby stoop in a sweep of dusty cement.

Ho-oh hastily back peddled into a standing position, dancing against the film of partially energized water rushing underneath her talons. She hopped backwards and lifted her wings into the air but the street had become too narrow for her to take flight. Instead of catching air, she battered down newsstands and street signs. Her injured wing desperately stretched and pounded in the motion of flight, hoping to catch any breeze or gust that could help her leave this accursed place behind.

Naga would never let that happen. Not in a thousand centuries.

He slithered forward, head low along the ground like the snake he resembled. His body rolled into motion and gouged out a ditch through the broken street easier than a drill in soft earth. Ho-oh shrieked to match his cry. She knew as much as he that there was no chance of escape.

For either of them.

Hamilton bounded after the serpent. The street trembled with each leap. Cars and other objects bounced in successive bursts of ground energy as _earthquake_ after _earthquake_ pulsed from the swampert's legs. They struck the snake every time, threatening to shake him more and more off track, until they finally did. Naga twisted just as another _quake_ struck and it bounced him right out of the groove. The snake crumpled under the momentum of his own weight and slid across the slick muddied street. Ho-oh wouldn't be able to hop away in time to avoid the living train crash before it struck so Hamilton caught up to Naga and chomped down onto the smallest nub of the snake's tail. It filled his wide maw from cheek to cheek so that not even a breath of air could slip through, but the swampert didn't need his lungs, only his legs.

He shoveled all four feet into the street like anchor hooks. They dug deep into the ground, buckling asphalt into a mound in front of him and creating a deep gash down the street. Water rushed into it, strengthening the _mud sport_ to prehistoric tar pit consistency. Mud rose up to Hamilton's belly, fastening him in place. Naga jerked to a stop. Or at least, he thought he had stopped until a jerk roughly dragged him backwards. Step by step, Hamilton tugged the onix away from Ho-oh half an inch at a time.

Furious, Naga lifted his head but another swift yank from the swampert slapped it to the ground again. Just a little force in the right place at the right time was enough to stop any giant in these wet conditions. Naga huffed rubble from his nose. He smashed his chin into the ground like a fist on a table and roared. The water around him violently rippled and droplets bounced at the surface. The giant snake lifted his head with a scratch and whirled around to face his assailant, but his head was heavy, body slow, and senses dulled. The countless waves of attacks blurred the lines of his sonar like vision.

Fatigue was an unfamiliar burden.

Hamilton quickly spat out the rocky stub of Naga's tail and jumped out of the soupy mud logged hole milliseconds before the serpent's head stabbed into it, fully submerging him from nose to fin. Naga quickly pulled out of it in a watery cough. A thick coating of energized mire lined his throat, nostrils, and eyes. Tunneling through layers and layers of rock may have hardened his outsides, but his insides were still vulnerable. Naga spat out the muck before he choked on it. Blinded, and now gasping for air, he raised his head to roar. Lucy, the flygon, suddenly landed on top of it with a _sonic boom_. The serpent swayed forward in the heavy landing and a concussion of soundwaves blasted forward. The world hummed into senselessness and Naga fluttered in and out of consciousness.

Panic quickly took hold. The serpent wildly slung his head back and forth to throw off the enemy, but the flygon wouldn't be dislodged. Not this time. She pushed and pulled the two vertebra connecting his head and neck apart, exposing the softer flesh between. Under Liam's command, she then traded the music of her wings for a more powerful voice. A hot white sphere of energy formed in the center of the flygon's mouth. It flickered into a solid line that drilled down into the exposed joint. The _hyper beam_ buzzed and smoked as it worked its way into the snake's flesh. The sudden intense heat cracked and weakened the serpent's crystal body like glass warmed too quickly.

Naga frantically thrashed, but at point blank range, the _beam_ only burrowed deeper and deeper into his skin. He tried to slap off the parasite with his tail but every strike was either too low, too high, or too far to the side, and produced an ear splitting clack that further disoriented him. Accuracy and precision degraded to wild pitches of desperation. Frenzied, Naga threw his head against the corner of a building to crush the flygon, unaware that it was made of hard granite and not softer brick.

The hard rock instantly cracked his brittle vertebra and Naga accidentally decapitated himself.

A string of tendons kept his head from falling off. Several broken nerve endings misfired, sparking a violent spasm through the snake and disconnecting his head completely. The lifeless boulder struck the ground in a heavy _thud_. Lucy followed. She crashed to the ground and accidentally threw the trainer from her back. Liam rolled to a stop farther down the street. He tossed off his broken goggles and gasped against the sudden loss of breath. He watched in silence and in horror as nerve endings continued to fire off strong enough impulses to continue the serpent's dying flail. Lucy hastily returned to the air to avoid it. Naga's headless body bounced from one side of the street to the other and suddenly flipped in Liam's direction. He flinched but Ho-oh leapt on top of Naga's flailing body before it could reach him.

Having recovered from the residue of attacks, she was finally ready to fight back. She held up her wings, and squeezed the snake into submission under her talons. She burned again, this time with a vengeance. Flames crackled from her feathers and the rainbow pokemon pounded her wings several times to strengthen them. The resulting gust blew glass, ashes, and other debris down the street. Naga was dead but the _sacred fire, sky attack_ combo propagated his destruction.

Another fire spout spiraled up into the sky. This time, Lucy wasn't fast enough to avoid it. The roaring torrent of fire caught her in its ascent and she flew off course down the street. Liam quickly turned away from the explosion. Heat blasted his exposed skin, burning it faster than a week in the desert sun. Now, he understood why John could spontaneously combust beneath the rainbow pokemon's wings, but Hamilton wouldn't let the ace suffer the same fate. The swampert pushed Liam to the ground and stood over him. Shrapnel pelted his skin and moisture steamed from his pores. He winked an eye against the wicked twister screaming through the street.

Ho-oh shrieked, vowing to dismember the snake piece by piece. She burned, pecked, and smashed Naga's body into obliteration.

Liam kept his chest pressed against the ground. Even with a few inches of water to protect him, the barrage was merciless. When Ho-oh finally turned and hopped down the street after Naga's head, the fiery winds slowed and Liam peeked out from within his arms. Half of the water in the street had evaporated. Some of it bubbled like hot springs. The ace tried to lift his chin off the ground but Hamilton suddenly pressed him back down again. He flattened under the weight of the swampert's belly. Liam couldn't see much from this position but something heavy must have landed on the swampert's back to make his legs bend like so. A watery voice suddenly cried out across the battlefield. The sound tightened Liam's chest even more than the pressure.

The call was Hamilton's and he was in pain.

A shadow streaked across the ground outside of Hamilton's protective covering. It disappeared overtop and the swampert's body leaned heavily to one side. Liam wanted to believe it was falling debris. Something simple and harmless like a tarp, a piece of rock, or even a chunk of billboard thrown into the air from the fiery storm, but the throaty howls continued. Several streams of blood curled under the edge of Hamilton's belly. They surged into steady streams that dripped to the ground.

The shadow wasn't debris, but an enemy. One powerful enough to break through the swampert's heavy defenses.

Liam frantically crawled his way out of Hamilton's protection. The tugboat pokemon couldn't fight properly with him underneath. He needed to get out of the way as fast as possible. Liam scrambled out into the open and popped up on his feet. He spun around just fast enough to watch a sceptile yank another _leaf blade_ out of Hamilton's back. Blood coated the forest pokemon's forearms from finger to sword tip. The first layer was already drying and darkened the fresher coats to a blackish hue. Several stab wounds pierced the swampert's scaly hide. Blood bubbled from the punctures like rolling fountains every time he flexed a muscle. The cuts were deep, severing as many vessels as nerves and possibly hitting bone.

Hamilton's flank twitched in several places. He dropped to one knee in a groan now that Liam was no longer underneath him. Sceptile grabbed a blue fin for balance and kicked the swampert's back. The tugboat pokemon collapsed in a splash of water. Satisfied that the blue war machine was defeated, Sceptile leaned forward, stepped on Hamilton's head, and walked off. The forest pokemon's thin slanted eyes then turned to Liam and the empty pokebelt on his waist.

The ace was out of pokemon and they both knew it.

Liam raced through his options. None were good. They weren't even bad. They were deplorable, impossible, and fated for ruin. His belt was empty and Lucy was too far away to stop Sceptile before the forest pokemon cut off his head in poetic justice.

Still, he had to try.

Liam reached for his belt to withdraw Hamilton and make a run for it while Sceptile summoned a _leaf blade_ along his arm. Both parties dramatically stopped a few inches from each other, frozen as if time itself had intervened. Liam didn't blink. He didn't breath. His whole body was immobile despite the adrenaline pumping through his system. Sceptile experienced a similar paralysis and the two stared at one another in panicked hesitation.

It was then that a woman casually walked up beside Liam. Her cane stabbed through the water logged street rubble better than a pickaxe. A bright green jewel served as its handle and there was probably a sword stashed within. Refined, elegant, and often the gavel to many a sexual imprisonment, Jade never went anywhere without it. She stood beside the ace. Her black lined eyes remained poised on the sceptile frozen in front of her. The appearance of a legendary pokemon often drew out the best in trainers, and Jade was one of them, especially when said pokemon preoccupied her rivals to a fault. With the bird in play, the rest of the Collection's territory and treasures were rip for the taking.

" _Psyshock_ , level 3," the Jewel softly explained with a draw of her long smoking pipe. "Activates both the fight and flight instincts at the same time, causing paralytic indecision. Cuts off the connection between the brain and body for 30 seconds, sometimes longer if your mind and body are at odds."

Sceptile jarred forward in a stiff gasp as the _psyshock_ wore off. Liam remained immobile. Madam Jade turned a sideways eye at him.

"My, my, don't we have secrets?" she mused.

The _psyshock_ broke and Liam stumbled forward. He gasped for air as if rising from the crushing depths of an ocean. The paralysis had stopped not just his mind, but his muscles and lungs too. The world was already spinning. Now, Liam couldn't even hold his balance. His shoulder brushed against Jade's in a stumble and she smirked lightly as if the touch of such a fine specimen was enough to arouse. Sceptile was less than gentle. He raised his blades to finish the strike but abruptly fell off course. He rolled off to the side onto his hands and knees, panting heavily and trembling. Sweat dripped from his brow.

Psychic attacks weren't so gentle either.

With the same grace as her trainer, a gardevoir floated up next to Sceptile. She looked down at him, tilted her head sharply to the side, and unleashed another telepathic assault. This time, the embrace pokemon tightened her hold. She outstretched her hand over the forest pokemon and Sceptile shuddered violently. The spasm turned into a seizure that brought foam to his lips. Soon, he stilled all together.

Liam knew he had to avoid the same fate but couldn't find the coordination to escape. With great effort, he turned away from Madam Jade and came face to face with her kirlia dancing upon a pile of rubble. The ace's body froze again. No doubt the work of another psychic assault, combining the mental paralytic agents of surprise, fear, and indecision to keep him captivated and complacent. Liam's heart thumped in his chest. He needed air to thin his thickening blood. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

Madam Jade filled in the rest. Within the vast black hole that was Onyx's presence in his life, Liam had lost sight of the other Jewels gunning for his head, especially the one playing the long game. Jade was a master manipulator of people, and as Madam of the Pleasure District, she was both revered and feared by the citizens of Treasure Cove. Trinkets were bought and sold. Entertainment was fleeting, but love . . . love was supposed to last forever. Life couldn't be lived without love so its price was high. Crazed, perverted, fanatics would give anything to make their dreams of love come true, and many of those fantasies often involved celebrities.

Madam Jade had her eye on the ace the moment he sauntered into her territory one lonely and brightly colored night. He was quick, but her pokemon were even quicker. Their prowess was known throughout the city and the only reason they didn't stray into Onyx's territory was because of the type disadvantage, but today, the snake was out of the den. Madam Jade shifted to stand in front of Liam. She took the ace's chin in her gnarled hand, looked him over, and smiled. He was a little dirty, but that was the nature of her business.

"I couldn't let Onyx throw away a gem like you," she purred.

The _psyshock_ ended and Liam dropped out of the Jewel's grasp onto his hands and knees. This time, a ralts was waiting for him. Two small white hands caressed the ace's chin just like its owner had done moments before. Too weak to pull away, Liam forced his eyes shut and turned his head to the side. Ralts turned it forward again. His touch too soft and delicate to resist. It reached out in that uncanny way his species was known for, reading and synchronizing with people's emotions. Ralts gently stroked the tension out of the ace's face.

There was no need to be afraid. After all, Ralts was only here to help. It was a rescue mission, just like the mission to save John and Ho-oh, to save a couple of friends.

Liam's face slowly relaxed. He opened his eyes and Ralts slowly lifted up the shadowed edge of his helmet. Their gazes met and the world instantly tilted. Colors bled together. They slid out of place and created a kaleidoscope of shapes that flipped, spun, and rotated the consciousness right out of him. Liam collapsed. He lay still on the ground like his swampert nearby.

The _confusion_ had done its work.

Madam Jade grunted approvingly and chewed on her pipe. The ace's susceptibility to status conditions was a well-known fact she had been waiting to exploit. Ralts turned to her and clasped his hands together, silently sharing her pleasure. Gardevoir wasn't so thrilled with the defeat, especially when a flygon hastily returned to battle and screamed out of the sky with a _dragon breath_ hot on her lips. Gardevoir threw both hands up in a _reflect_. Flames splashed across the swirling pink shield. Madam Jade winked an eye at the disruption and pulled her lips back in a black and yellow tinted smiled. She cackled slowly to herself as _dragon tail_ after _dragon tail_ failed to break through the barrier. With Gardevoir on one side, Kirlia on the other, and Ralts in between, not a spark or cinder would break through the force field. The psychic connection between the three siblings was too powerful.

Mr. Bentley could see as much from his recently acquired position across the street. He sat in the front seat of a stolen ambulance, the first available unattended vehicle he came across after leaving his companions behind. Lucy couldn't break through the trifold _reflect_ on her own, and no pokemon would, unless they were stronger than three elite pokemon combined.

Luckily, Mr. Bentley wasn't a pokemon, and he didn't have to worry about energized bodies or elemental attacks rebounding off of the shield. In fact, he was a regular old human just waiting for a chance to do something the good old fashion way. Mr. Bentley tightly clenched the steering wheel. He would have preferred to drive his bullet proof four door fortress, but a professional wasn't a professional because of the wheels underneath.

Besides, an ambulance might just come in handy considering the circumstances.

Mr. Bentley slammed on the gas and raced across the street. The ambulance weaved around several large potholes and chunks of concrete. Water sprayed and splashed around it, drowning out the sound of screeching tires. Gardevoir and Kirlia heard the sudden rev of an accelerating engine but they never expected such a primitive attack. The ambulance plowed through the _reflect_ , shattering it instantly against the mechanical might of simple brute force. Gardevoir slapped against the hood and Kirlia disappeared underneath. Mr. Bentley struggled to keep control when both went under and the ambulance violently rocked with the sudden change in terrain.

Madam Jade flinched as the ambulance careened past her and swung sharply to a stop. The hood of the car pointed at her and she recognized the blood of her pokemon splattered across the grill. Ambulance and Jewel stared at one another. Jade glanced to the side at the helpless ace both of them were after. Mr. Bentley teased the gas in warning. Another standoff ensued and the ambulance eagerly vaulted forward. Sensing the outcome of this game of chicken, Ralts quickly grabbed onto Jade's dress and activated a _teleport_. It was a risk, taking a human along for the ride. Madam Jade would probably lose a limb in the teleportation, maybe even her life, but it was at least a chance, anything better than the certain death he foresaw if she stayed.

Madam Jade and Ralts vanished in a small ripple of water moments before they were run over. Mr. Bentley screeched to a stop, expertly sliding into place just a few feet short of the fallen ace. He jumped out of the driver's side door with a pokeball in hand but the Jewel and her pokemon were already gone. Hopefully, stuck between dimensions. He tossed the thought aside and quickly dropped down next to Liam. It wasn't the first time Benny came across the ace in such a state, but his heart still lurched in panic every time. As invincible as the world made the heir seem to be, Liam was fragile, and not just because of his status conditions.

"Come on, Liam," Benny hastily whispered as he lifted the ace out of the muddy rubble. "Wake up!"

Liam's head lulled to the side. His lips moved but nothing came out. Mr. Benny quickly shifted his hand to support the ace's head.

"Liam," he called again. "Liam!"

The ace weakly smiled. He looked up at the sky as if watching fireworks pop and exploded in a finale just sort of permanent brain damage.

"Shit."

An ear piercing screech suddenly erupted from the street. Mr. Bentley glanced over his shoulder and cursed again. Ho-oh spread her wings from street corner to street corner in victory. Her eyes burned wildly and flames smoked from her feathers. Naga was utterly defeated on a cellular level, but she wouldn't be safe until back in her home world, and now she finally had the space to open up a portal. Heat billowed from her beating wings and light reflected off of her feathers. It flashed and flickered in a blinding display of color worthy of a stun grenade. Mr. Bentley shielded Liam as best as he could but the wind still fiercely whipped around him. Worse yet, Liam didn't seem fazed by any of it. And when the ace's eyes suddenly rolled back in his head, Benny knew his time was running out.

Lucy may not have realized the critical nature of her trainer's condition, but she did understand the danger of the legendary bird wreaking havoc on the city. She quickly landed next to the two trainers and protected them with her body, taking the brunt of another fusion attack as it pulsed down the street. Benny used her sacrifice as a chance to escape. He gathered up the ace and slung him over his shoulder in true military fashion. He then carried Liam to the back of ambulance, swung open the doors, and threw the ace inside.

Ho-oh took off into the clouds without looking back.

A distant explosion rumbled across the city. Thinking it was Ho-oh's return, Mr. Bentley cautiously glanced up at the sky. Something exploded on the roof of the business tower just a few blocks down. There was a chance it was the work of one of his teammates, maybe Marcus or John, but he didn't have time to find out. Mr. Bentley jumped into the back of the ambulance and tore through the supplies, looking for anything he could use to stabilize Liam's condition. He needed to focus on the patient in front of him.

Whoever was up on the roof, they would have to fight on their own, but at least, it sounded like they were putting up one hell of a fight.


	54. Guardian Angels: 2

**Guardian Angels: 2**

Onyx snapped the empty ultra-ball to her waist, a motion as familiar to her as loading her favored M9. She didn't feel Ibis, the mightyena, materialize and brush up against her broken arm, and she didn't care to. The only thing she felt was the riotous urge to murder the pokemon trainer pair standing across the rooftop in front her. Her scar ridden gaze saw only one thing; the soon to be gotten future of two forgotten gods slain at her feet. But the Black Jewel's expression gave nothing away. Wrinkles didn't exist on a face that didn't know humor or fear.

Onyx parted her lips in a single totalitarian command.

"Kill him."

Ibis raced forward in silence, unwilling to give up the advantage of the first strike with an overzealous bark. Everything she did was for her trainer, whether spoken or not. The Royal's commands always went without question.

Across the rooftop while Onyx prepared, John knelt down in front of Lopo. He took the houndoom's head in his hands and looked between the canine's black eyes.

"It's all come down to this," he said, still managing to smile despite the weight of the task in front of them. He rubbed both thumbs along Lopo's silky black fur. The rain made it shine like fresh obsidian.

"Be careful."

Lopo lifted his head, swished his tail, and hopped lightly like a nickering nightmare horse. Accustomed to equine antics, John shifted out of the way and Lopo trotted past him. The houndoom quickly picked up into a gallop and his silent paws blurred into a sprint. On a collision course with destiny, the two canines ran at each other from the opposite ends of the roof. Lopo met the challenge eagerly. After all, head to head knockouts were his specialty. His two great curled horns couldn't be matched by simple tooth and claw. Still, Ibis charged him without pause because she knew the houndoom as well as herself. They were both creatures of the night after all, and dark types always favored the element of surprise. The hound wouldn't complete his advance the same way he had come.

Lopo flickered in a _feint attack_ faster than Ibis anticipated, but she had seen that move once before and wouldn't be taken by surprise again. The mightyena hastily jumped into the air. Lopo materialized from the side and rushed underneath her. They crisscrossed in a flawless dodge. Ibis landed at full speed, gunning across the rooftop towards John. The trainer inhaled sharply, recognizing the target on his chest.

Lopo knew this game. He raced around to come in at an angle and cut off the mightyena before she reached her target. Ibis caught onto the dark surge in the corner of her eye and slammed on the brakes. Gravel rolled up over her paws as Lopo sped by in front of her, his speed now his weakness. Ibis didn't relish in it. It was just another miss to add to the hound's growing list of failures and there would be many more to come. Instead, she used the bending motion of her stopping legs to launch back into motion.

Lopo sharply turned to catch her, disappearing halfway through the maneuver and reappearing directly in the mightyena's path. Ibis expected as much, having familiarized herself with Lopo's style from his many nights in the Cage. She shifted a paw, dipped her shoulder, and passed the hound with a flick of her bushy tail. His horns brushed harmlessly by, but Lopo was starting to understand his opponent now. She was smart, she was fast, and she deserved every ounce of what was coming to her.

Lopo disappeared again, before he even finished his latest failed _attack_ , and came up beside the mightyena. Ibis stole the hound's entrance with a _thief_ , and body checked him upon materialization. He stumbled off to the side and tripped over a pile of dislodged gravel created earlier in the fight when Naga was still on the roof. Ibis hopped lightly ahead of him, spun to face the canine, and smirked out a _taunt_ before running off again. Lopo huffed out a smoky breath.

That bitch.

When he finally struck, he would hold nothing back.

John tried to keep up with the battle but the canines moved so fast that they were mere blurs and streaks to his vision. He only knew that in a matter of seconds Ibis had outmaneuvered the fire canine and came upon him. She was only a few steps away now and would close the distance before the next heartbeat, but John didn't run the first time they met, and he wouldn't do so now. Lopo relied on him to maintain such composure. He also needed him to stand perfectly and absolutely still.

Ibis met John's gaze as she closed in on the trainer, and in it, she saw confidence that warned her of an oncoming attack. Instead of leaping for the human's throat, the mightyena veered off to the side. If she hadn't, the _flamethrower_ that suddenly billowed in front of John would have burned off more than the mane on her back.

A second stream of fire followed, chasing Ibis away from John and back towards the middle of the roof. She cut sharply to the side and ran down the length of the flames, surprised to find a houndoom running the same path from the opposite direction within them. Lopo charged out of his inferno. Impressed but not surprised, Ibis waited for the flicker she knew was coming. Lopo's shiny black fur darkened. His body shimmered in another _faint_ _attack_ and Ibis shifted in reaction to it but the shadow didn't disappear. Lopo _fainted_ on top of himself, spurring a flinch from the mightyena while continuing his current path. She dodged the wrong way and he plowed into her at full speed, horn to chest. Wisps of flame flew off of him on impact. Cinders caught in Ibis' hair and glowed as she soared across the rooftop and crashed into the watery gravel.

Lopo lifted his head and looked at Onyx.

Fang for fang had failed. Now, it was time to add a little fire to the mix.

Kiev, the charmeleon, tossed off his materialization with a snarl. He used the residual energy to spark a _flamethrower_ and laid out his tongue in a fiery scream. Lopo spread his jaws to do the same and the two streams of fire collided halfway across the rooftop. They swirled upwards, pulling steam from the standing water around them. Kiev snapped off his faucet first. A good steady burn before a _smokescreen_ always made the cloud thicker and hotter. He belched out a _smokescreen_ with just as much vigor as his _flamethrower_. The smoke expanded quickly against the cool stormy air and John pulled a sleeve over his face to protect himself from it. He caught a glimpse of the dark pokemon before it willingly trotted into the cloud and disappeared.

Lopo had to give the charmeleon credit. The _smoke_ stung on contact. It was hot and thick, instantly blinding all with tears and irritation. Thinner _screens_ would reveal swirls of movement or smoky tendrils curling off of a form, but not this one. Akin to a natural disaster, Lopo was surprised there weren't cinders of a forest fire floating within. But he didn't need sight to find his way, only the confidence of his own movements because that was the way of creatures of the night.

Lopo stopped. He took slow paced breaths to control the amount of smoke and soot he inhaled. A single cough, snort, or sneeze would give away his location. Patience unlocked the potential of a good _smokescreen_. Patience, and the element of surprise.

Something splashed lightly and ripples of water echoed through the ashen cloud. They were soft and stealthy like cautious footsteps. The charmeleon was on the move and he had two targets to pick from: pokemon or trainer. Lopo silently lowered his head and flicked his tail into a slow rhythmic swing.

Better narrow down the options.

Kiev stalked through the _smokescreen,_ tail blazing and eyes forward. His path was clear despite the air being thick with smoke. Onyx's orders were absolute: John and his pet must die and it wasn't hard to figure out which was the more vulnerable of the two. The houndoom could chew on its paws in the smoke until the job was done. Something jingled lightly nearby, like the chime of a soft and distant bell.

Kiev froze halfway across the battlefield and glanced sharply to the side. Nothing but smoke churned into motion. A ghostly echo chilled the charmeleon's tail but he couldn't let it distract him. One too many steps out of place and he'd get lost in the depths of the _screen_. This rooftop wasn't so familiar that he could blindly make his way across it from memory. Kiev cast the interruption aside, his nerves must be getting to him, and turned back in the direction he knew John to be in. The stench of charcoal was strong, even for him which made sniffing out the whelp's position difficult. But it wouldn't be long before the trainer succumbed to the poor air conditions and started gasping for breath. Kiev flexed his claws greedily as if they would be the ones to choke the life out of the trainer.

He'd get his revenge for the gallery yet.

As if reading the charmeleon's thoughts, something intangible pressed into Kiev's back like the predatory gaze of a hunter. He quickly whirled around and his tail roared with the motion. The flame stilled and silence followed. Smoke continued to float unbothered from one unending space to another. A bead of sweat ran down Kiev's brow.

Something was out there. He was sure of it, but it didn't feel like a pokemon.

A dark flicker passed by to the left. Kiev launched himself at it and raked through the cloud with his claws, tearing a brief hole in the _screen._ More smoke filled the vacuum. Another jingle resonated through the cloud, this time, to the right. Kiev whirled upon it but his claws came up empty once again.

It didn't make sense. He wasn't fighting a ghost. If the canine was going to attack, he would have to move: push his paws through the gravel, give with his weight, or make some type of noise. He wasn't a spirit of the dead. He was a living breathing pokemon . . .

Right?

Lopo, poised in a pounce, waited for the dull glow of Kiev's burning tail to steady in the smoke. When it did, he disappeared and closed the distance with a _faint attack_. No footsteps, no sound, just one set of horns flying faster than the speed of light. They struck the charmeleon square in the back. Kiev bounced and tumbled out of the _smokescreen_. Chin deep in gravel, he skid to a stop with his bottom half still raised in the air. Kiev grabbed a handful of rocks, threw down his legs, and shoved himself up. As he stood, a sudden and unexpected pain shot through his back, doubling him over in a gasp.

Kiev clenched his teeth together and opened his eyes. The crushing force of the houndoom's horns had fractured several vertebra in his spine but he wouldn't let this be the end of it. A single attack from one houndoom wasn't enough to finish him. He was a Royal Jewel's pokemon after all! The charmeleon attempted to move but his muscles froze, paralyzing him from the waist down. Sweat dripped from his chin. He had to move and fight or it would be the end of him.

A soft jingle echoed across the rooftop.

Kiev froze again, but this time, it wasn't from the pain.

A breeze blew across the rooftop, causing the brownish black cloud to thin. There was still a creature within, a creature as dark and stormy as the smoke itself. Black, hot, and as deadly as it was deceptive, the smoke couldn't help but betray its creator for it. Airy tendrils of soot caressed the shadow of the creature within, hiding it from unworthy senses. Kiev couldn't see it, not until it stepped out of the cloud of its own volition. Smokey fingers reluctantly pulled away from the creature's silky black fur, riding the edges of two curled horns before the breeze carried them away.

Lopo stopped halfway out of the cloud to stand and look at Kiev. The tip of his barbed tail teased the smoke still lingering behind him. It swayed, counting the beats of the charmeleon's heart like the blips of a heart monitor. Lopo lowered his head but the weight of his presence only grew. His gaze was blacker than his fur as if there was nothing within. No light, no soul,

No escape.

Kiev tried not to panic but when a second houndoom gently pushed through the retreating smoke to stand alongside the first, head high and paws poised in silent unspoken regality, he trembled. The canine watched him with the same omnipotent stare as its partner. Kiev glanced between them. He couldn't linger on one without feeling the other chill his internal heat with murderous intent. The charmeleon knew it had to be the doppelganger of a _double team_ , yet he still couldn't shake the feeling that the canine had a brother. It was too real, too devastatingly close to the truth to find a weakness and pinpoint the original. The houndooms' swinging tails synchronized, slowly ticking away the moments before they struck.

Kiev swallowed back the terror and it caught halfway down his throat. The barbed points of the hounds' tails settled to a stop. The first canine darted out in front of the other and the second galloped into a matching path from the opposite way. Their paws barely made a sound even as they raced through the gravel, gaining speed at the bottom of their figure-eight maneuver. Kiev couldn't pick a hound to watch, let alone attack, by the time they both swooped in with the screech of furies.

Lopo and his doppelganger unleashed a _fire blast_ each and they roared at Kiev from both directions. He identified the real one almost instantly. Heat couldn't be mimicked in a _double team_ , but even knowing which one was real didn't change the fact that he couldn't move because of the injury to his back. Kiev sucked in a deep breath. His back might be broken but he could still move his mouth and buffer the flames with his own.

Too bad Lopo didn't intend to wait for him.

The real houndoom disappeared in a _faint attack_ after releasing his fireball. He exchanged places with the doppelganger, and as Kiev sucked in his breath to face the flaming threat in the front, the canine struck from behind. Lopo rammed into the back of Kiev's head and the charmeleon's mouth clapped shut. His teeth cut new holes in his gums and he fell forward, face first into the _blast_. Lopo crouched behind him, using the lizard's body to shield him from the explosion while keeping the charmeleon from being blown backwards. Kiev experienced the full force of the _blast_ as if it had dropped on his head.

Fire plumed upwards into the sky, sucking up the rest of the smoke and _screen_ on its ascent, clearing the rooftop.

Kiev fell forward into the gravel, white eyed and blackened. Burnt skin crusted the rawer sections of his flesh where the attack had eaten through his fire type resiliency. Lopo stood behind him and watched the scaly nub of the charmeleon's tail still flicker with life. The battle wasn't over yet. The houndoom took no pleasure in the task in front of him, especially when his opponent was practically down for the count but he didn't have a choice. Onyx didn't give him one. Lopo snapped onto the end of the flaming tail and pulled it up over the charmeleon's head like a scorpion's stinger. He then stepped on Kiev's snout to keep the lizard in place and pulled. Kiev's back broke under the strain.

Upon hearing the crack, Lopo immediately released his hold and the charmeleon's lower half flopped heavily to the ground. This time, the end of his tail did not reignite. But like many serpents of legend: cut off one head and two more will take its place.

Lopo reared backwards as the jaws of a mightyena narrowly missed his throat. He tensed for an immediate counter but one never came. Ibis stumbled past the hound, her legs wobbly and weak as if they didn't connect to her shoulders quite right. She'd never admit it, but the hound had gotten the best of her.

Lopo's great horns had split her sternum in three places. Several ribs were broken, her collar bone was fractured, and she moved as if her front legs were made of a bundle of loosely tied sticks. Ugly, disgraceful, but still equipped with two working jaws, Ibis staggered back around. She tripped, fell, and struggled to get up again. Blood stained her lips where an organ had ruptured. Drool ran down the line of her mouth and flung into spittle against the feral growl daring the dark pokemon to come near her.

Lopo recognized the sound. He had used it many times in the days after Aria's death. Was this how John saw him that night in the Cage when victory was all that mattered? Lopo pitied the poor beast in front of him. He also felt something much more dangerous than her threat vibrate through his paws from the floor.

The business tower suddenly trembled as cries of the giants battling on the street below echoed up to their level. Lopo struggled to hold his balance during the quake, but Ibis was already stumbling. The tremors only helped propel her forward into another poorly aimed _crunch_. Lopo pivoted out of the way, but as his paws settled, something rubbery slapped against his ankle. It then yanked his paw right out from underneath him and he crashed chin first to the ground. Ibis quickly descended upon the opportunity. She fell more than she pounced, but her claws and teeth were still in perfect fighting condition even if her legs were not. She tore at the hound's face, breaking tooth and nail against his boney head plate and horns. Blood flew from her claws as much as his muzzle.

Lopo howled and threw the mightyena from his face with one great swing of his head. He stood and four more _string shots_ splattered across his ankles, this time, one for each paw, and fastened him into place.

Dracks, the ariados, had been waiting since the _smokescreen_ for this moment. He jumped onto the houndoom's back with a _venoshock_ in his jaws. Lopo sagged against the sudden weight and winced against the bite, but the spider didn't pump out more than a few drops of venom before he realized the hound's _flash fire_ had been activated. Dracks quickly yanked out his fangs and tried to wipe away the steaming hot blood from his mouth.

Lopo stood up straighter to better shoulder the burden wailing on his back. He couldn't _faint_ an escape while stuck to the gravel like this, so he'd have to burn off the pest before it struck again.

Lopo inhaled sharply. His chest expanded, his neck bent, and a crescendo of silence flourished the motion as he spat a _flame blast_ underneath him. Composed of only the most dangerous parts of a _fire blast_ and a _flamethrower_ , the ball of flaming plasma struck the gravel with the force of a land to air missile but didn't exploded right away. It flattened outwards, spiraling into leaflets of solid energy that curled up and around the pair with the grace of a flower blossom. As the petals touched, the energy ignited and the bubble exploded in a spinning disk of fire. It blew outward then upward in a fiery display worthy of war.

The magnitude of the concussion ripped the flames of the attack apart, leaving a pinpoint accurate implosion that knocked the nearby trainers off of their heels. The heat rose upward and spurred a surge in the already stormy weather. A sudden downpour fell over the rooftop. It ended quickly, too quickly to put out the fire consuming Dracks' body. The spider dropped to the ground, writhing as his body burned both inside and out. Flames waved from his legs but no matter how much he thrashed, rolled, or slapped they wouldn't go out. The flames had reached the spindle pouches of webbing in his mouth, legs, and abdomen. Twined to the density of lead, they would burn until there was nothing left.

Lopo lifted out of the swirling ashes above him. The webbing around his ankles continued to burn as if his bracelets were on fire. His body shimmered in sweat and heat, seemingly refreshed by the intensity of the explosion as if he had been holding back his true power for years.

Onyx watched the dark shadow rise from the flames. Its eyes flashed an otherworldly silver and she teased the seal of the master ball on her belt. If the legends about the ball were as true as they were about the _Rainbow Wing_ , then there was still a way to defeat the hellhound.

Lopo stepped forward, and as if rising from the depths of hell, the ground trembled beneath him. The business tower shook, and this time, a giant crack suddenly split through the gravel. Beaten, battered, fractured, and crushed from level to level, the building could take no more.

Not one step.

The gravel began to vibrate. It rattled and bounced into the widening crack. John nearly slipped on the loose gravel shaking underneath his feet and spread his arms for balance. Onyx did the same, but her gaze shifted away from the ground to Ibis. The mightyena continued to fight against the brokenness of her body, dragging her front half in a failed attempt to stand against the shaking. Even on solid ground she'd probably never be able to stand the same again. Crippled, she was worthless. Turning an extra length to compensate for her blind eye, Onyx looked down at her own injured arm,

Some would have said the same thing about her.

And they'd be dead wrong.

No longer tempted by houndoom's dark magic, Onyx pulled the M9 from her jacket and fired off a shot. The bullet pegged into the background, however, as Ho-oh suddenly flew past the building in a tornado of superheated air. Energy pounded from every beat of her wings, pelting those exposed on the roof with elemental shrapnel. John covered his face and Onyx pulled up her jacket for protection as the ripple of the bird's passing rocked them both into a stumble.

The building shook again and more of the roof buckled. Groans of over taxed metal warned of the collapse to come. Onyx threw down her arm and watched the bird grow higher and farther into the sky without turning back. The lures should have prevented such an escape. Onyx whirled around towards the nearest pillar for an explanation. It sparked in some sort of malfunction and went dark. She whirled around to the next. It was in worse shape than the other with a broken spire and torn wires hanging out. She spun to the third and clenched the butt of her gun so hard that it ripped the skin over her knuckles and drew blood.

Saul, the arbok, body checked the last remaining lure, causing it to spark and strobe in disruption. Glossed in a _protect_ , he then spun his tail into it, bent the spire in half, and tore into the control panel with his fangs to kill it completely.

"You snake!" the Black Jewel snarled, more so at John than the cobra. "You double crossed me with my own pokemon!?"

Across the way, John smiled and tucked the black ultra ball back onto his belt. The Royal Jewel wasn't the only one to use Kiev's _smokescreen_ to their own advantage. He had learned a thing or two from his time in the Cage.

"He's not yours anymore," John smartly replied. "And neither is Ho-oh!"

Onyx screamed and glanced behind her as the rainbow pokemon, no longer bound by the strength of the combined lures, disappeared into the clouds. Her chance to catch the legendary bird was gone, all because of a pathetic worthless nobody of a trainer that should have taken a bullet between the eyes the first day they met. Onyx screamed again and whirled around towards John, the barrel of her Beretta as steady as her resolve to kill him.

John didn't fear it. He didn't even acknowledge the threat as he watched a rainbow shimmer across the city in the wake of Ho-oh's passing. Hair slicked back by the rain, he closed his eyes and stood with his chin pointed upwards as if he were caught in a summer's rain.

It was then that Onyx realized that the trainer never intended to defeat her, to escape with his life, or to keep the legendary pokemon for himself. He was only doing what he had promised down in the gallery: to keep the bird as far away from her as possible, and because of the bird's near death experience, she would probably never return to this earth again.

A man true to his word, down to his very last breath.

Impressive.

Onyx narrowed her gaze down the barrel of her gun, but before she could fire a second shot, the building suddenly lurched, throwing all of those on top off balance. Cracks threaded their way up the side of the tower and the floor broke into several large chunks better than a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces of concrete folded over themselves at odd jagged angles, dislodging the entire configuration of the roof.

Onyx bent to one knee as the floor beneath her tilted. She could still fire off the killing shot before they all tumbled to their doom, but her good eye strayed away from the houndoom and its trainer to the mightyena nearby. Ibis slid down the face of a broken slab of cement toward the widening hole in the floor. Crippled as she may be, that pitiful beast still clung to the rock, scratching at it for life and stability. She hadn't given up.

And neither would her trainer.

In a split second decision, Onyx dropped the M9 from her hand, snatched Ibis' pokeball from her belt, and withdrew the mightyena before she fell to her death. She left Dracks and Kiev left burning in the growing rubble. There was no point carrying around a couple of corpses.

John lost sight of the Jewel as the floor suddenly gave way underneath him. Lopo lunged forward and bit onto the belt of his pants before the dusty black hole swallowed him whole. The houndoom then swung the trainer off to the side, taking his place and dropping out of sight in the collapse. John quickly activated a withdrawal and pulled the fire canine into his ball before it was too late.

But the effort only stalled the inevitable. The floor ripped apart and dropped, caving in on itself, taking the stairwell and the fire escape with it. John felt himself become weightless. He reached out, holding Saul's pokeball in his hand to withdraw him to safety, but the cobra did what he wanted, when he wanted, whether his trainer agreed to it or not. It wasn't a servant's job to tell its master what to do. But a master's job, to protect those that served him.

Saul threw himself at John and collided with the trainer as the last bit of stable ground collapsed beneath them. He bit into John's shoulder, using his fangs to create a firm hold, and coiled tightly around him. They both knew it was a noble but useless sacrifice. A _protect_ couldn't stop the crushing force of a falling building, even if it came from a cobra as magnificent as himself.

They were doomed, like most things in this god forsaken city, but at least they were together,

and that black hearted bitch finally got what she deserved.


	55. Guardian Angels: 3

**Guardian Angels: 3**

A giant crack split across the wall. It raced from one level to another with the speed and shape of a lightning bolt, dusting Marcus' shoulder with plaster. He looked at the ominous mark, the shuddering wall around it, and then the upper reaches of the stairwell. Was it him, or was it leaning?

"Is all that muscle lead in your legs, Hell Boy?" Vermillion harshly jibed from beneath his chin. "If I wanted to crawl, I would have dragged myself to the exit."

Marcus considered dropping the Polisher in his arms and blaming it on his injured foot but then thought better of it. She may be vile but her insults had grown mild since the beginning of their descent and it wasn't the first time she stirred out of fading consciousness with a crude comment to cover the fact that she could barely keep her eyes open. John's field dressing had helped, but Vermillion still had a bullet in her stomach and words were all she had left to combat the utter helplessness of her situation.

No wonder she and John got along so well.

A tremor, like the many others that preceded it, rocked the building and Marcus into motion again. He rapidly tapped down the next flight of stairs, but his swift feet weren't fast enough to reach the next landing before an aftershock struck. It bounced him out of step and shifted a majority of his weight onto his injured ankle. It gave under the pressure and the fighter toppled down onto the next landing, twisting at the last second so that his back and shoulder bashed into the wall instead of Vermillion's head. Winking open a lazy eye, he cursed hard enough to arouse even the Polisher's virgin sense of guilt.

"Just leave me," she harshly muttered. "I'm dead anyway." Her gaze was dark and fragile but her words, despairing as they were, did not prick with the same coldness as before. She muttered them softly, as if hoping someone would tell her otherwise.

The hypocrite.

"Shut up," Marcus growled.

The Polisher's false pretenses were starting to irritate him like the blood clot that separated from his ankle during the fall. Broken anew, the gash began to freshly bleed again. Marcus leaned against the wall, silently preparing himself for the agony his 200 lbs. pure muscle frame was about to inflict on his leg when he stood up. Pain was just a state of mind. Not a grimace escaped the fighter's finely furrowed features as he resumed his steady, but much slower, descent down the stairs. Compared to the frantic fidgeting of the typhlosion that suddenly bolted up from a lower level, it was a divine act of discipline.

Sonya stopped in front of the humans, back alight in flame, but she didn't burn with her usual cool blue composure. Her torch was tinted purple as the layers of failed _stun spores_ , _poison powders_ , _sleep powders_ , and the like, mixed into her flames. Their chemical compounds burned like incense from her fur, casting a makeshift _sweet scent_ into the air, but the aroma didn't soothe her frustration. Her back flared in agitation, possibly even in warning, but there was no reason why. The heat of her fire had long since driven Boss Ruby's Lieutenants into retreat. Something else must have happened, something bad enough to shake a well-armed, expertly trained, beast of battle into panic. Marcus glanced around the staircase for an answer and found it in what was missing.

Where was Beats?

A golem sized lump of apprehension lodged itself in Marcus throat, choking him into silence. Curses he knew, oaths he swore, but apologizes after letting someone else's pokemon come to harm while under his command was a language too profane to pass across his lips. Sonya quickly turned around and darted down the stairs, back tracking at every landing until the fighter finally understood that he needed to follow. Ignoring the throbbing ache growing up his leg, Marcus navigated the stairs as quickly as he could without slipping on the ashes left from the volcano pokemon's previous battles.

Just half a level down and around the corner, a large pile of debris blocked the staircase. Metal and rusted iron poked out of the rubble, the implications of which, confirmed the fighter's suspicions that the buildings internal structure was damaged. Judging from the mass of that pile, it wouldn't be long until the whole building crashed down on their heads. Beats was just lucky this small portion didn't land on his. Tucked in a ball in the corner of the landing, the quilava had managed to avoid being crushed but he couldn't unravel to squirm out of a small gap in the rubble. Sonya ran her nose back and forth across the opening now that her fire had been rendered useless against the man made rock.

Marcus used his hip to push her out of the way and exam the pile. He wasn't an engineer but he was used to landslides on the mountains by his home, and judging by the way the rubble had fallen, if they tried to widen the hole, it would break whatever bubble protected the quilava. There was enough room to slip past the pile and continue down but not enough to get around and look for another opening. None of them could get through, but they couldn't leave him behind either.

Vermillion winced as the fighter's indecisive shifting bent up her stomach.

"Use your balls not your brain," she quickly snapped and the shifting stopped.

"What?"

"His pokeball, dumbass," Vermillion explained with a roll of her eyes. "Just force a return."

Marcus carefully maneuvered one hand to his belt and removed the two black ultra balls Liam had tossed to him on the staircase. He raised his palm and looked at them, unsure who belonged to whom. Either way, it didn't matter. Both Sonya and Beats needed to go back into their pokeballs. The stairwell had become too dangerous to let pokemon run around loose anymore. The next collapse might not be so forgiving. Marcus held up his palm.

"Go back," he commanded.

Sonya paused and looked at the fighter, then the pokeballs, and started digging at the rubble to free her hatchling. Vermillion rolled her eyes. Compared to this oversized half-wit, John truly deserved to be called an ace.

"For the love of-enlarge the ball first, then activate the withdrawal," she instructed.

Marcus looked at them, dumbfounded that he had forgotten such a simple thing in his heated masculinity. Vermillion had no trouble stabbing into it.

"Shit, your balls are as shriveled as your brain," she exclaimed. "Take me back to John up on the roof. At least, he's got a pair worth of polishing."

All the blood flowing out of the fighter's ankle sucked back into his cheeks. It wasn't the crudeness of the comment that bothered him, but the fact that Vermillion was right. Growing up at the dojo, pokemon were never more than part of the environment, no more special than the mountains, the trees, or the weather around him. They had their uses and deserved to be respected, even cherished, but a real man didn't need a beast to fight his battles for him.

A real man would have understood how pathetic the thought was.

Life Lesson#16: No man truly fights alone.

Because when he fights, he fights with all his heart and soul, and a soul doesn't grow in isolation. It carries everyone and everything thing that ever made an imprint upon it. Whether good or bad, every meeting, every encounter, and every decision, shapes a man into what he is. Pokemon included.

Just how weak and small had he become excluding them from his life?

If he had relinquished his pride and trained to be an Ace like Liam or John, growing up to respect pokemon as his partners, he might not be gunning for the exit of a crumbling business tower with a busted leg and a bloody nymph in his arms. If he knew more about pokemon, he could understand how to use them, and in turn, how to fight a proper battle instead of relying on them, or him, to do all of the work.

Fighters never fight alone and no longer would he.

Right then and there, Marcus vowed to become one of the best trainer's in the League to prevent any of this from happening ever again, and he'd do it by becoming the next master of the Cork City Dojo.

But first, they needed to get out of the building alive.

Marcus maneuvered the pokeballs in his hand but he couldn't activate the automatic withdrawal without dropping them, and with Vermillion in his arms, he couldn't bend down to pick them up without aggravating her condition. She wouldn't let him touch her if he put her down either. Not without John's soothing touch. Marcus worked his jaw into a growl. When did _he_ become so helpless?

"Use your words, Hell Boy," Vermillion prompted when he started squirming again. "Or are you incapable of intelligent speech?"

Marcus clenched his jaw so tight that several veins popped out on his neck. It was all he could do to keep from biting back at her. Even on her death bed the Polisher was still as sharp as the stiletto tucked away in her corset. Vermillion slowly lifted her arm and reached for the pokeballs. It seemed like an effortless movement. Her pale smooth skin slipped through the space between them with the grace of porcelain, gliding with a hollow fragility unbefitting a living creature and more like an undead thing.

It took every ounce of strength Vermillion had to shift her arm from her lap but her fingers were accustomed to the rounded weight of pokeballs and took to them easily. She snatched them in her grasp and returned her hand to her lap, exhausted from the small effort. Her gaze drifted off again, but there was a twinkle to it now, as if borrowing someone's pokemon reminded her of something worth living for.

A couple of volcano pokemon were too big to slip through the gap in the rubble, but an energy stream was not. Sonya and Beats de-energized and disappeared into their balls. Vermillion clutched them to her chest and leaned heavily into Marcus' torso, succumbing to the fatigue that was growing harder and harder to bear. The fighter tried to arouse her with another witty remark, but this time, she didn't have anything to say, and that worried him more than the growing network of cracks threading through the building.

Dust flittered down from the ceiling as they inched along the plaster. Metal groaned within the walls and the railing suddenly separated from the concrete in another tremor. Ignoring the pain down his leg, Marcus slipped past the pile and down the stairs. The entire floor was shaking now and a dull but rapidly growing roar droned from above. He hit ground level but the pressure from the collapsing building pressed the emergency exit doors into their frames, bending and knocking them out of place so that they wouldn't open. Marcus shifted to stand in front of the stairwell-to-lobby door. After several futile tugs, he rammed his shoulder into the metal only to bounce back in failure. The fighter pulled away from the obstacle in a frown of determination. He didn't come all this way to trip at the finish line.

Marcus Hailbringer didn't stumble, he raged.

Marcus pulled back, readied himself with a berserker's yell, and kicked open the door. It flew off of its hinges and bounced into the lobby, startling the linoone darting across the floor with a mouse riding on its back. Charles tripped and spun across the slick water logged linoleum. Bezel, the rattata, squeaked the entire way until they slid to a stop in the middle of the floor. When they lay motionless, the mouse couldn't bring himself to loosen his tiny pawed grip. Haggard and shaking, he had never known fear until this day, and it wasn't because of the falling building, but rather, the ride to escape it.

Charles glanced back at his passenger then turned to the stairwell. Marcus stumbled heavily into the empty frame, hovering his injured foot over the ground like a lame pokemon. He bit back a wince and started running for the exit without a second pause. Charles quickly hopped into stride next to him. The shaking intensified and the glass doors and windows surrounding the lobby shattered, opening up an instant exit for the group. Marcus and Charles leapt through the nearest one and hit the street running, joining a flood of countless others fleeing from the disaster.

They stopped at the next intersection to catch their breath and turned to watch the building collapse on itself. Finely crushed mortar and brick rushed out from the demolition site. Marcus turned his back to it, holding Vermillion tightly against him as it washed over them. She turned into him to shield herself, but the way she grabbed onto his bare chest was anything but grateful. It was almost hateful as her nails dug into his skin.

Marcus coughed back the smoke as the debris settled. Some of it had spilled close to him and he stepped away from it, taking stock of its position relative to his own and the miracle that had spared him. A hole opened up in the cityscape where the business tower once stood, now reduced to nothing more than a pile of twisted broken wreckage.

"Marcus!" a voice called from behind.

The fighter turned and Mr. Bentley waved at him from the back of an open ambulance parked on the other side of the street. Liam laid on the gurney inside. All of the opened sterile packaging around him was less than encouraging, but Benny's jacket was laid over him and the driver, although dirty, wasn't drowning in despair. He even seemed relieved to see them. Marcus navigated his way through the smashed asphalt and came up to the back of the ambulance.

Mr. Bentley, anticipating more casualties, hopped out of the ambulance and helped Marcus place Vermillion inside. There was just enough space to lay her beside Liam on the makeshift bed he had prepared while assessing supplies. Marcus glanced at the ace as he relinquished his charge into more gentle and nimble hands.

"Liam?" he tentatively asked. The ace was hooked up to enough equipment to make him synthetic. A smirk played on his lips but that idiot was more likely to die with a smile on his face than a grimace.

"Critical but stable," Mr. Bentley returned as he familiarized himself with Vermillion's condition. "Is that a bullet hole? Shit." He quickly went to work on the Polisher, surprised to find that the wound had been hastily but properly pretreated. Just as surprised at the nature of the injury, Marcus quickly backed away to give the professional some space. He envied the way the driver's hands navigating gore and chaos so easily. There was still so much he had to learn to even consider catching up to his friends, and speaking of friends, there was one still missing.

Marcus looked back into the disaster zone around them, lingering on the mountain of debris that had nearly destroyed them. Smoke clung to it like the mist of the Champagne Mountains. Soft cries filled the background and they were broken by coughs and shaky exhales of survivors. Scattered bystanders, disoriented and in shock, wandered around the edges of the debris field, not one of them wearing a smile capable of pissing him off at a single glance.

"Where's John?" Marcus asked.

"I thought he was with you," Mr. Bentley answered.

A sharp laugh cut through the air. It was an odd sound for someone on their death bed.

"John?" Vermillion weakly laughed, mustering a small amount of strength at the absurdity of the statement. "That's really his name?"

The two men exchanged a cautious glance, worried that hysteria had filled the mind of a practiced killer, but Vermillion didn't draw a knife or a blade, only a small frail smile unusual for her features. Ignoring the outburst, Marcus turned back to the ambulance and spotted Lucy, Liam's flygon, clearing debris away from the ambulance. Charles, still wearing Bezel as a backpack, curiously came up to meet her and started running back and forth to the mouse's dismay. If the rushing pokemon was here, then surely John would be too.

"Didn't he come down with Liam?" Marcus continued.

"I don't know, I barely made it in time to rescue Liam," Benny exclaimed while ripping open packages of sterile bandages with his teeth.

Once confident that the spunky long limbed trainer would overcome all odds and spontaneously show up as always, Marcus was beginning to doubt John was going to keep up his end of the bargin. He spun around several times, searching the smoke.

"Where is he? I don't see him," the fighter pressed.

"How the hell should I know?" Benny snapped back, fumbling with a shot of morphine.

"But he said he would be here!"

Mr. Bentley slapped a hand against the wall of the ambulance and hung his head over the Polisher. Blood covered his trembling hands and smeared his sweaty cheeks. Emergency first aid was hard enough, but trying to satisfy the fighter's desperation while stitching flesh together and dealing with his own frustration took more composure than what was left within him. Marcus recognized his fault, lowered his gaze, and clenched his fists to keep his own hands from shaking. He already knew the answer to his questions:

John wasn't here because he never made it off of the roof.

Mr. Bentley sighed, ready to shoulder the responsibility of speaking their worst fears, but Vermillion quickly cut him off. She wouldn't allow the words to be spoken aloud and made true.

"He's alive," she whispered defiantly.

Vermillion refused to look at Benny or Marcus. To do so would acknowledge the blasphemous act of hope in her words. Instead, she looked up through the ceiling at something far away, something she thought only John could see, and let it brighten her emerald green eyes with tears.

"He has to be."


	56. Guardian Angels: 4

**Guardian Angels: 4**

No matter how hard John tried, the darkness wouldn't have him. Time after time it rejected him. And just when he thought they had finally understood one another, it pushed him back into that bodiless void that was "in between". Was it something he said? Was it something he did? Or were they never destined to be together? They had surely spent enough time together to become soulmates. After all the cloudless nights, deep mountain caverns, dark pokemon hovels, dank underground chambers, and mental blackouts he'd experienced throughout his life, their souls should have been one and the same.

Apparently not.

Otherwise, he wouldn't be drifting senselessly into nothingness like this. It wasn't an unfamiliar or terribly frightening state to exist in, but it sure was boring. With nothing to feel, all he could do was think, and one question loitered suspiciously in his mind.

If darkness wasn't inside him, what was?

A small flame popped up in the shadows of John's mind. It was a meek and happy thing that burned with the eagerness of a birthday candle awaiting a wish.

Silly little flame, didn't it know that in order to grant a wish, it had to go out?

That fire was far too spirited for its own good, growing bigger and stronger after every failed breath as if the hopes and dreams rushing by inspired it to burn even brighter. A wish was a beautiful thing, so why should it grant only one? Why should it settle for one moment of happiness when there were so many more to be had?

So many that had already gone by?

John smiled to himself as many precious moments of his life strolled across his consciousness. They started when he was younger, most more feeling than focus. One crisp memory rushed to the front of the recollection tape reel as if it always had to be first when nostalgia set in. It was such a simple yet remarkably life changing moment: the day John stuck his head in an old tree hole and bumped noses with a zigzagoon.

And just like the day John first met Charles, there were many other moments impatiently waiting their turn in this montage of memory. There was one snowy Christmas Eve when John stayed up late sharing cookies with a mightyena in front of a fireplace, and that time he skipped prom to ride the back of a rapidash underneath a star shower. John still remembered the way Lularoo's fire waved and danced in front of his face as they sped along the single lane highway that wound through Boulder like a loose piece of string. It was still waiting to be tied into the universe.

The flame in John's heart swelled with those happy moments, burning so radiantly that its color stretched into the tail of a rainbow. Colors danced across the trainer's mind: Yellows and oranges swung in well-timed turns to avoid the purple pirouettes garnishing the edges of the flames. Greens mingled in between the performance, winking at sheepish pinks to make them flush crimson. All the while, reds and blues slow danced in the middle, leaning in closely to whisper secrets that the others couldn't hear. It was a waltz as grand as any ball. Every color of every spectrum melded together to create a single all-encompassing white light that filled John's entire being.

Within it, there was no room for darkness. Shadows didn't exist in a soul made of multicolored fire, but that didn't mean John didn't love that wide quiet black void any less. No one deserved to be alone, not even darkness. That's what stars like him were for.

That's what houndooms were for.

Linoones, pidgeotto, and rapidashes too. Wiggly bellsprouts, mothering mightyhenas, and arboks . . . Beautiful spoiled overbearing little cobras too selfish to give the grim reaper his due . . . John was alive. He was sure of it. Living was the only thing that ever hurt this much. His two mossy hazel eyes slowly blinked into focus. His pupils adjusted quickly to the light given how bright the darkness was inside of him.

The last thing the trainer remembered was a piercing ache in his shoulder, suffocating pressure, and a building falling on top of him.

How then did he survive?

The answer was still wrapped around him. John opened his eyes a little further and met a purple wall only a few centimeters from his face. Saul, despite having feinted in the fall, was still coiled around him. The cobra's mouth remained clamped to his shoulder even in unconsciousness. John held his breath, listening for the cobra's own.

Had his life come at the price of another?

A shallow but present breath escaped the snake's nostrils and tickled the trainer's ear.

Of course not. As if a measly little trainer could measure up to such magnificence.

John relaxed lightly, sinking into the sheath of coils still wrapped around him. Together, trainer and pokemon lay on a pile of rubble that seemed to spread for miles without end. Part of Saul's hood had retracted, giving John a small crescent of sight into the sky above as he lay on his back looking up. Clouds of dust drifted across the area, giving the already cloudy sky a smoggy hue. The abhorrence of true devastation quieted the area and Saul's constrictive hold had loosened, but John didn't dare move.

Even at a standstill, breathing was as difficult as it was painful. Every breath rattled his lungs like a bag full of broken needles. His ribs were bruised again, that much was certain. Some were probably broken. If he moved the wrong way, one could puncture his lung. It was hard to do an inspection wrapped up like a mummy, but John could feel every bruise growing along his skin. They colored him as deeply as his arbok's scales from shin to neck and the cobra was no better.

Saul's body was more black than purple, bruised to match the skin of his trainer. In the worst of spots, scales were crushed, chipped, or missing all together. Others would follow as more scales died, discolored, and broke away from the cobra's body. It would take many sheddings before they all grew back, and even then, some places may still retain a scar. Saul would be crushed.

Just like John's arm.

He could tell without looking that it was broken. It lay at an odd angle on his stomach and wouldn't move as commanded. It didn't hurt as much as his chest which meant the break was probably clean, simple, and luckily, still under the surface.

John closed his eyes as a wave of nausea churned his stomach. He opened them again, willing himself to stay calm against the pain torturing every nerve in his body. The fall had taken its toll on both of them, although John was sure most of his injuries were caused by the snake's protective but highly constrictive embrace. Internal damage was likely for the both of them. There was no telling how much or to what extent, but one thing was for certain, Saul's condition would stabilize much faster in energized form.

It was time for the snake to return to his pokeball, and this time, he couldn't sink in his fangs to refuse. They were already shoulder deep. Thankfully, Saul's pokeball was still clenched in John's hand despite the arm itself being broken, but for some reason he couldn't find the strength, or the space, to open it.

The trainer winced as he shifted his free hand along his stomach towards the pokeball. The movement was slow and agonizing but eventually his tender fingertips ran across the release. At first, the ball didn't open as if the two halves were stuck together, but after a willful pry the ball popped apart, and when it did, a wave of agony hit the trainer like an _electroshock_ , bringing tears to his eyes. Just as quickly, Saul's body disappeared in a bright glittering puff of light.

Having been wrapped snuggly within the coils, John dropped several inches onto the rubble below when the snake de-energized. His body fell heavily, knocking the back of his head against a broken slab of cement. His eyes fluttered shut and everything went black. Several minutes went by before they opened again, and this time, it wasn't so easy. The spell of unconsciousness had stolen what remained of the trainer's battered strength and added a concussion to his list of injuries. He couldn't open them more than a wink.

Without Saul's warming presence, John's body went cold and the chill was growing. He lay alone amidst the top layer of wreckage, situated in the valley of two slates of broken concrete. The slab behind him propped up his back and the one underneath bent his legs casually in a gentle downward slope. His broken arm rested comfortably in his lap, and by the way he sleepily lounged on the wreckage, one would have thought he napped on a courtyard daybed.

John quietly peered out into the garden of chaos, the same one he had cultivated since his arrival in this timeline. Roses of broken rebar, violets of violence, and daisies of dreams he'd soon be pushing up surrounded him. Despite the trainer's best efforts and mental pep talks, his breathing remained slow and shallow as if he had already fallen asleep. A thick layer of dust cast an old matte finish across his figure, broken only by the fresh blood glistening from the thick cut across the bridge of his nose and the gash above his right eyebrow. The dark color of his shaded eyes twinkled lightly, catching something far and distant from this world.

Several minutes went by before John remembered where he was.

He glanced down his torso to the hand in his lap. Saul's pokeball was still in it. Behind it, dark red creases stained the lines of his dirty calloused palm. The blood was thick and tacky and his fingers refused to uncurl from their hold. Stiff and tired, they unlocked like a skeleton's grip, causing John to wince at every crack. He had clenched the ball so hard during the fall that the ring had cut through the bandages and embedded itself into his hand. It would scar just as badly as the flame burn on his other palm. No wonder opening it felt like juggling a handful of broken glass, but at least Saul was safe and out of danger.

Maybe he was too?

John attempted to sit up and the stabbing pain in his ribs gently put him back down again. The scent of iron was strong now and it wasn't from the playground of twisted metal around him. Without Saul's fangs to close the veins, a sleeve of blood ran down the trainer's arm. It spread across the flat sheet rock underneath him, picking up flurries of dust along the way. John looked away from it, back up at the swirling clouds of smoke and dust overhead. The storm had ended and sunlight had broken through the cloud cover, alluding to a sunset somewhere far from this derelict wasteland called a city.

It was enough to put tears in his eyes again.

A cauldron of summer colors burst through the small window in the sky, mixing with particles in the air to bathe the area in soft golden light. John's vision turned fuzzy as he looked at it, but he was pretty sure it wasn't because of the sunlight. There was only so much the human body could take, and his had been running on empty for a while now. He lay motionless, no longer feeling any pain. It slipped away from him like the life running down his arm from the two holes in his shoulder. There was no blood in him, no food, no energy, or strength.

But there was still something, something beautiful, bright, and warm like the sunset peering down at him. The sparkle in John's eyes softened.

Never in a thousand centuries would he have guessed that his Commencement would bring him right back where he started: Laying on his back, bruised from head to foot, nursing aching ribs, and at the bottom of a fight he knew he couldn't win.

It was as if he never left the Cork City Dojo.

John could try to blame it on bad luck, possibly a few poor decisions, or maybe even the fact that the world might just be out to get him, but for him, suffering had become only a matter of perspective. His body always complained about being bound to such a restless and courageous soul ever since he was little. Aches, pains, stings, pinches, and the like, John knew them all by heart. Whether it was stubbing his toe on a root, learning how to fight in a dojo, or going toe to toe with a trained killer, there was always a story that went with it. There was always a reason for the pain.

A reason for living.

Did Onyx have any of those?

If he was alive, it was likely she was too. The Black Jewel was too maliciously possessive of her possessions, including her life, to let them fall into the hands of Fate. Evil wasn't bound by death. The Black Jewel would live forever, far beyond her years, like some gnarled old witch from a fairy tale. She probably had some secret spell, some master escape plan tucked away on her pokebelt used only in the rare case of emergencies. Maybe it was another ariados trained like Vulcan and Kiev, to replace its predecessor in the event of an untimely end? Or possibly another creature of the dark like Naga to strike a deal with, one far too sinister for even the devil to propose?

John closed his eyes and shifted to hug his ribs without shame or reservation.

In the end, it didn't really matter. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon so there was no point trying to outrun the past or sprint towards the future. Better to ride the tide lapping up against him even if it was an ocean of his own blood.

It was funny. His body hurt like hell, the bad guy got away, and half of the city was destroyed, but this was the first time since Lopo arrived on the dojo's doorstep that John felt content with his life.

Getting lost in time wasn't so bad.

After all, by doing so, he found out where he truly belonged.

Sure, the rocky bits and pieces of cement scratched his skin, something prodded his hip uncomfortably, and the amount of blood spilling from his shoulder plastered his shirt against his back, but at least the sun was still out. It reached from the heavens and touched him with soft feathery coated fingers.

Or maybe, it wasn't the sun at all?

John slowly winked open an eye.

And there, on his chest, was a feather.

It was large, nearly the length of his hand, and red, but not just any shade, ruby red with a shine of polished stone. It flashed and glimmered with a mastery of light unsurpassed by mechanisms of earth. The feather had fallen from the sky and curled up on his chest as if to nap next to its favorite tree underneath an afternoon sun, and if that wasn't strange enough, it hadn't come alone. Another feather softly twirled down from the sky and slid to a quiet stop on the concrete a few centimeters away. This one was white and tipped in emerald green as if a sudden snowfall had tripped and fell over spring's new grass.

John watched several more feathers fall from the heavens around him. They danced in silence, some flecked with gold and others practically melted in it. Their opal shimmer caught the light and played off of one another, creating a chandelier of crystals not bound by color or shape. They were jewels as royal as any bloodline, and one in particular, stood out amongst the rest as the most prestigious lineage of all. It had taken only the best of every color and created a fire inside of itself so that it glimmered with the depth of topaz stones. The _Rainbow Wing_ descended as if it were a mother bending down and extending a hand to a child.

John turned his cheek into the feather as it passed. Just like in the gallery, its caressing touch caught both his skin and its threads on fire. But this time, the flames were not sharp or wild. They rolled softly like air, burning in the same colors that created them. The other feathers, those still falling and those already on the ground, suddenly followed suite, as if some sort of thread connecting them together had been pulled. They cast glowing embers into the air. Most kept their multicolor glow as they departed, cooling into a fine black ash that glittered in suspension in the air around him.

Soon, John found himself amidst a universe of stars that twinkled and glowed in the daylight. They warmed the air with the comfort of a freshly drawn bath. It filled better than a hot meal and soothed with the reassuring presence of a cozy hearth in winter. John closed his eyes and inhaled the rich aroma of the _roost_.

He wasn't so alone after all.

A warm wind quietly pushed the stars and smoke away, rustling the trainer's hair and the dust from his skin. A light, different in nature than that streaking through the clouds, rode upon the breeze. John slowly opened his eyes at its touch. He couldn't move at all now so squinting was his only reprieve against it. Although, the trainer was pretty sure he was dreaming because the sun materialized into solid form in front of him.

Blessed in a halo of pale yellow light, Ho-oh landed on a mound of debris several feet away from John. Her wings beat silently, barely disturbing the dust of the wreckage below. Whether she burned with light, fire, or a mixture of both, John couldn't tell. He only knew that when he looked upon her, the physical world melted away to a place without space, time, or the troubles of a human life caught in between.

It was a light incapable of casting a shadow no matter how hard it tried. It was a light that matched his eyes almost perfectly. A ring of mirror like glass twinkled and shimmered around the edges of the glow. It was a doorway between worlds getting ready to crystalize shut. Once and for all. John tilted his head at the rainbow pokemon and smiled. Weak as it was, it still managed to brighten his paling skin.

"You silly bird," he whispered. "You weren't supposed to come back."

John's chest grew heavier, as if the words had used the last of his breath. His eyelids lowered and napping underneath an afternoon sun suddenly felt very, very appropriate. One with the light, there was no start and no end to Ho-oh's feathers as she tucked away her wings. She sat as regal as her reputation and shifted her head to the side for a better look at the Champion in front of her. John blinked long and slow, and for a moment, he didn't think his eyes would open again. More moments of his life flashed across his eyes, mostly those incurred down in Onyx's gallery where the trauma was still tender.

He had almost forgotten in the chaos of it all. Ho-oh was here for her flame. His fire.

Was it that time already?

John attempted to speak again but found that he couldn't. He was tired, just so very tired. . .

His head began to tilt to the side and his eyes lost their focus. He felt his life slipping away again, this time, taking his consciousness with it. There was just nothing left inside of him to burn. The flame inside had finally purified him from the inside out, reduced him to ash, and rid him of every burden he had ever carried from the past, present, and future. John couldn't explain what was happening to him, not with any Ranger Rules or Life Lessons, but he knew it was more than the _roost_ healing his pain.

Was this what it felt like to be a Ranger, to be one with a pokemon?

Is this what it felt like to die?

John smiled and clutched onto that small flame tickling the walls of his heart. He never considered himself a smart person. Answering philosophical questions wasn't his style. He wasn't very good at training pokemon either, or battling those that were, but he was a fighter, and he wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Too bad, it wasn't his choice.

The trainer's chin gently dropped down to his chest. His head fell to the side and his eyes didn't open again. Ho-oh silently watched, waiting a moment before spreading her wings again. Her feathers began to glow and their light slowly whited out the world around them.

The rainbow pokemon then took a page out of her Champion's book and jumped into the light.


	57. Guardian Angels: 5

**Guardian Angels: 5**

John hated hospitals. He vowed never to set foot in one again after the last one tried to have him committed. So when he awoke in a curtain lined cubicle dressed in a paper gown, surprise was just one of the many feelings that flushed through his system, especially when he discovered that he had a roommate.

The old man in the bed next to him was another survivor pulled from the wreckage of the business tower's collapse. He perked instantly when John awoke, thrilled with the opportunity to gossip with a patient too dazed to be tainted by logic and rationality. Giddy with rehearsed exaggeration, the man put John's vocal cords to shame before the trainer could even part his lips. He spoke a mile a minute and was already halfway through the third rendition of events by the time John finally blinked into focus. According to the old man, the hospital had to double up rooms because of the overwhelming amount of victims. The media blamed the collapse on faulty construction triggered by a gas leak.

As if.

But John let the man continue, if only as an excuse to scope out his surroundings and clear the haze from his eyes. The one size fits all gurney of a bed itched even through the blankets. Question after question rolled over the old man's gap toothed speculations in the background. Some touched upon the truth. Others were the spawn of a deep rooted paranoia. John knew better than to open his mouth in correction, especially when the old man's wet cloudy eyes started shifting back and forth between the trainer's freshly gauzed wrists, lips salivating for another good story. John quickly threw back the blanket and put his feet to the floor.

This time, he wasn't going to wait around for a nurse or doctor to find him. He learned his lesson the first time around in Garden Cruise. His health was better off in his own hands. Ignoring the background prattle, John walked around to the foot of his bed and unhooked the clipboard hanging there. A quick glance at the medical chart was all he needed to know that he was stable and capable of making an escape. A broken arm already cast in a sling, a skinsuit of bruises, and a couple of busted ribs were almost a welcome diagnosis compared to what he expected after nearly being crushed to death by his own pokemon. The empty profile information, however, sunk a stone so far in his gut that it hit rock bottom.

"John Doe #62" filled the box where his name was supposed to be.

A rabbit hole of mad doctor obsessions and pond scum baths suddenly opened up underneath John's feet. He swayed lightly and grabbed firmly onto the bed post, stopping himself from falling into it. No, this wouldn't be like before. He wouldn't live his live in some psychiatric Attic.

Back in the clearing with Ho-oh, he had made his choice to stay and he didn't regret it.

This timeline was now his home, and he didn't plan on bedding down in a hospital for another night. His unknown identity might actually be of use to him. There were probably a dozen victims caught in the disaster still waiting for identification. So many, that their possessions and pokemon were bagged, tagged, and left hooked to their beds, including John's. Losing one patient practically cleared for release was a simple clerical error.

John snatched up his bag of possessions from the hook. It contained what looked like a dirty penny, one pokebelt, and surprisingly, a silver switchblade. When did that get in there? He'd have to think about it later. Right now, getting out before someone diagnosed him as a safety risk was all that mattered. He'd have to pinch a set of scrubs from the nearest laundry room before he hit the street. Running around half naked in public often drew too much attention. It was a guilty but necessary sin to aid in his escape.

Vermillion had rubbed off on him. The switchblade suddenly made perfect sense, the sneaky thief.

John ran through the door and into the hallway. A string of people quickly avoided him but there wasn't much room for any of them to go.

Nervous chatter filled the hallway. Nurses hustled between rooms, visitors tried to reconnect with family, and collapse victims with minor injuries nervously roamed among them. John couldn't have asked for a better cover. He'd blend into the crowd seamlessly. His legs were less than enthusiastic. They wobbled unsteadily and John fell into the wall, rattling his ribs better than a bag of bones. He gasped and it only sharpened the pain. Gunning for the exit might draw too much attention anyway. Adding a little hobble to his walk might do his cover and his aching chest, some good.

John placed a flat hand on the wall and pushed away from it. His head swam with blurred memories, some about the business tower, his rescue and transport to the hospital. The images flickered between being in an ambulance and being in a helicopter, merging with his night of c _onfusion_ in Boulder. Others surged from places caught in the middle like Garden Cruise Memorial Hospital, the Cage, and a sunset colored sky. Nausea churned the trainer's empty stomach. How long had it been since the fight on the rooftop? Hours? Days? Weeks even?

John couldn't keep track of the time anymore.

He leaned forward and placed a hand on his forehead as if to contain the spinning whirlwind of incomprehension teaching him a lesson in vertigo. Too much head trauma too soon? Or had a hidden pocket of Celebi's psychic dealings been knocked loose from its hiding place in the far recesses of his mind?

Probably both.

John felt bandages underneath his fingers. They wrapped his head like an old war veteran, leaving the black stiches along the bridge of his nose and eyebrow exposed. Good thing he had a skull thick enough to hold everything in. Too bad it wasn't as good at keeping things out. John looked up at a commotion down the hallway near the circulation desk. One of the doctor's, haggard by a 48 hour shift, thrust a sharp finger at the man in front of her, or rather, the soggy brown waffle that might have once been a linoone draped over his arm.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put away that pokemon," she demanded. "This isn't a Pokecenter."

"I would if I could Ma'am," the man replied with as much respect as he could muster, "but it's not mine!" He adjusted the pokemon in his arms like an awkward load of oversized groceries bags about to break their plastic. "I've tried everything but he won't leave me alone."

"I'm sure you have." Her words stung with sarcasm.

"I'm serious. When I put him down, he just lays there like a sack of potatoes, but the moment I try to go somewhere, he chases after me. He's run through traffic twice already and almost caused an accident."

"Why not just lock him in a kennel or something so he can't?" a nosey patient asked from their seat along the wall.

"Don't you think I've tried?! He keeps breaking out of it."

"Then remove it and yourself from the property," the doctor ordered.

As if expressing the exhaustion on both sides of the argument, the linoone sighed so hard that it sunk a little deeper into the man's hold and dangled with the weight of a hanged man. His two front paws stuck upwards out of the crook of the man's arm in an uncomfortable manner but the pokemon didn't seem to care. He was as miserable to be here as he was to exist. Several people glanced at the man suspiciously and he quickly tried to make the pokemon more comfortable but it was putty in his hands. The doctor scoffed. Several bystanders watched in amusement, waiting for the moment the pokemon dropped to the floor. One patient quickly stepped in before everyone drowned in the drama.

"Here," he said, "let me show you how it's done."

Professional body guard and chauffer, Mr. Bentley froze in surprise as John expertly folded the linoone over his arm and hugged him against his chest despite the stabbing pain in his ribs. Charles perked almost instantly. His nose wriggled and ears swiveled, hoping to detect another trace of his trainer's voice or scent. John smiled and kissed the linoone on the head. Charles was always rushing back and forth, never stopping to look behind him.

"I'm right here, boy," he said.

Charles turned his nose up in kisses and started kicking his legs as if he were dashing across the ward at full speed. John laughed and immediately regretted it, coughing out what he was sure was a piece of lung. Several nurses flocked to him, offering aid and assistance as if he were the Celebrity Ace himself. Pokemon and trainer reunions in the aftermath of a crisis reached even the most sterilized of hearts. Mr. Bentley puffed up lightly at his humiliation but quickly deflated when John's pleading eyes found him through the flock. Benny quickly composed his relief with a brush of the linoone hair from his vest.

"It's about time you showed up," he said.

The next hour was a blur almost as hazy as the ones in John's memory, but at least this time, he was conscious enough to remember leaving the hospital. Mr. Bentley was at the center of the transition, acting as a gentleman's gentleman to a degree worthy of the estate he was employed too. Discharge paperwork disappeared under his signature and transport was waiting in the loading zone by the time they walked out into the parking lot. A fresh change of clothes, a hot meal, and a healing machine later, and they were driving down the road, on their way to meet up with the others.

"How did you know where to find me?" John asked from the passenger seat of the black four door fortress Benny wouldn't stop caressing. Having worked several disaster sites in his lifetime, the trainer understood that hospitals were overflowing with incoming patients. Many were transferred, lost in translation, and occasionally unaccounted for. During something has big as a high rise collapse, both clinics and hospitals would be bursting at the seams. Going room by room in them all would've taken days. Not to mention getting past the medical red tape.

"I didn't have a clue where you where," Mr. Bentley admitted, "Not at first. But when I heard about Patient Zero, I knew it had to be you."

"Who?"

"Patient Zero," Benny explained, "The last person pulled out of the wreckage. The one found in the very heart of the collapse in the most unlikely, inhospitable conditions, and somehow, still alive." As Mr. Bentley continued to expound upon the story, John realized one very important but casually stated detail.

In the wreckage of the collapse, he had died.

The EMTs had resuscitated him quickly though. They were assessing his condition in the rubble when it happened. Patient Zero had beaten impossible odds, refusing to die until help finally arrived, and when it did, he flat-lined. John wasn't dead but a few seconds before the EMTs started chest compressions and stabbed his heart with a shot of adrenaline. Mr. Bentley shrugged that part off easily as if dying was just another part of the business. He had certainly seen enough in his lifetime to know worse, but the driver didn't continue the story after that, and John respected his silence. He didn't really want to talk about it either.

Dying was exhausting.

They drove in silence for the rest of the way until the highway ended in a road that led to a private airport. Mr. Bentley drove right up into the hanger and parked next to a small jet already fueled and waiting for them. By now, John found the courage to ask about Vermillion and Marcus. Mr. Bentley didn't know much. He, Marcus, and Vermillion had parted ways when they first arrived at some other hospital but the driver happened to catch a snippet of gossip while searching for John. Apparently, someone recognized the Polisher and called the police. She escaped the hospital after surgery before they arrived, leaving nothing but a set of empty handcuffs behind. She was probably on the run somewhere, never to be slighted or taken into custody again.

Good for her.

A short flight, another meal, and more driving later, and the road turned into a cobblestone driveway that ended in the parking lot of some sort of specialty neurological rehabilitation clinic that had a name John couldn't pronounce. It was more vacation mansion than medical center in John's opinion, but he was also a country boy from the mountains who rubbed dirt in his wounds more often than an antibiotic. Mr. Bentley led the way past the fountain, through the front door, a lobby, and into the common area outside of Liam's wing.

"Wait here," he said. "Feel free to use the accommodations. I'll be back later."

The driver then left John by the sofa and crisply headed back through the building.

"Wait, where are you going?" John called after him when he realized the driver meant _much_ later.

"To fetch the other mutt," Benny informed, stopping to look back and adjust his hat. "I didn't want to risk aggravating your condition by picking up Marcus during the same transport. It took a sedative just to get him through the door of the first hospital. Like I was going to bring that time bomb here without a babysitter. Modern medicine scares him more than anything else surprisingly. You two have that in common."

John flushed lightly. He forgot that Benny knew more about his stay in the Attic than the others, but that's also why the driver personally escorted him to the same high end treatment facility as Liam.

"Just try to relax and get comfortable," Benny urged. "You shouldn't be moving anyway."

John glanced at the mini fridge already supplied with drinks, built in kitchen next to the leather sofa, and the flat screen TV that took up most of the wall. Comfortable was an understatement.

And just as quickly as Mr. Bentley appeared, he vanished, off to complete the mission left for him. John looked around again. Despite the fancy name, the clinic was just another hospital. He had escaped one nightmarish white walled prison only to willingly walk into another. The decorum was much more posh but the faux stone floors, polished countertops, and various potted plants still reeked of antiseptic. Polished linoleum. Fluorescent lights. The smell of disinfectant so strong you could taste it. The place gave him the creeps, and the only way to overcome it, was to think of someone other than himself.

Liam.

Mr. Bentley mentioned in the ride over that the ace had sustained some injuries during the big showdown and all of them were familiar hurts. _Confusion_ was no laughing matter, despite how much the victim giggled and smiled while under the influence. Benny said Liam was in room number 202. Maybe he was feeling well enough for a visitor?

John followed the trail of numbers down the hall and spotted room 202 up ahead. A doctor walked out of Liam's suite and into the hallway. He scribbled something on a clipboard and tucked the pen into his white lab coat pocket. John quickly picked up his pace to catch the doctor before he had a chance to move on to his next patient.

"How's he doin', Doc?" he asked.

Dr. Jackson Barnes glanced up, expecting to see a friend that had been visiting Liam for days and instead, finding a stranger. But given the amount of concern swelling in the trainer's eyes, the two young men must have known each other for years. A quick glance at John's array of injuries also told the doctor that he had been involved in the same incident that landed Liam in the clinic. The credentials required to enter the building were lengthy, so there shouldn't be any harm respecting the crisis the two shared.

"Most of his wounds are superficial and healing nicely," Dr. Barnes explained, "but his mind hasn't completely recovered from the psychic influence yet."

"And right now, there's no true way to measure the damage," John finished.

Dr. Barnes carefully measured the depth of the young man's eyes. Unable to see the end, he pulled out and glanced into the room behind him.

"He still has some amnesia, but it seems to be contained to just the past few weeks," he continued.

"Is it permanent?"

"We don't know." Jackson delicately touched John on the arm. "Don't get discouraged. Liam's made excellent progress over the last 48hrs, and it may take a little while, but he'll heal. I'm sure of it. Some things might just remain a bit foggy." The doctor then lightly shrugged a shoulder towards the room, opening up the pathway to the patient inside. "He's sleeping right now, but spending time with him will help. The more the better, even if he doesn't realize it. The soul is a powerful thing."

Indeed. John nodded but didn't look out of Liam's room. Dr. Barnes lingered a moment, hoping to find the bottom of those acorn colored eyes. Failing, he continued on his rounds. John waited at the door until he was alone.

What would he find on the other side of that door? What were the consequences of his Choice?

The only way to find out was to go inside.

John closed his eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Was there a life lesson for something like this?

The trainer tucked his hospital paranoia aside, exhaled quietly, and walked inside. He took care not to intrude, walking silently and slowly with the gait of his houndoom in mind. Some would have found the thought grimly ironic, but apparently death wasn't a friend of his, and hopefully, it would stay away from those that were.

John carefully pulled back the curtain and poked his head around the shade. At first, he mistook the room for a rainforest of specially arranged flora and card stock fauna. Bows and ribbons distinguished the various "Get Well" care packages filling the countertops. They spilled onto the floor and into the couches. A small path had been cleared for the nurses and doctors to make their rounds, but the rest of the terrain was questionable. The fragrance of flowers alone cut through the musk of hospital medicine.

Balloons. He should have brought balloons.

Although, they probably would have been lost in the helium foliage and glass vase forest around him. Well-wishes were to be expected from admirers, but this collection was just from close family and friends. Luckily, expeditions into the wild was one of John's specialties. He made it to the bottom corner of the bed without disturbing a petal or party favor along the way. Liam lay asleep within the blankets. The level of disruption to his silvery hair indicated frequent napping, favoring his right side over his left. Even in a paper gown, he put the notion of ailment and illness aside, making any hospital visit as luxurious as a day at the spa.

Then again, this private room was an upgrade compared to the ones John was used too. Behind the gifts were real wood cabinets, a full wardrobe, granite counter tops, and a recliner with matching sofa in the corner. Luxury hotel suites could have picked up a decorating tip or two from the design but John wasn't concerned with home décor, only the strong steady blip on the heart monitor. A slight bruise discolored Liam's cheek and a few scratches lined his face, putting a temporary halt on his modeling career, but there wasn't a single injury Liam wouldn't have taken to make their mission a success.

John knew better than to blame himself. He had better luck controlling time travel than the will of a Valenis. Now, they both knew what it was like to get whammied by a pokemon, only John got the spins and Liam the amnesia. John smiled to himself thinking about it. It was a small and sad thing that hung onto the corner of his lips like a frown. The doctor said that Liam's memory loss reached into the past few weeks. It was more than the entire time the two had known each other. John's soft eyes glistened like ice catching moonlight in the dead of night.

When Liam woke up, the ace wouldn't remember him at all.

It was better this way. Neither of them were supposed to have known each other like this. The universe was fixing itself in that intangible cosmic way that it always did. The timeline was restored. The future, saved.

John took a step back from the bed.

Now, it was time to leave.

It would hurt, leaving without saying goodbye. He owed the ace a great debt, but if he stayed and Liam woke up, it might jog the ace's memory. This was his chance to ensure that the beautiful happy future he knew stayed protected, even if it meant giving up his place in it. Mr. Bentley would be disgruntled after all the effort he put into bringing them back together, but their impression of one another was still soft and pliable.

Marcus would fly into a rage when he found out, but his temper would eventually cool like it always did. In the future, Sensei never mentioned anything about past encounters with a time traveler that looked exactly like young Johnny Hawkins. It was likely the fighter forgot his face or had some of his own memories knocked out during his MMA career. If not, this was the nature of people like them.

Commencement brought change and change was a natural part of life. His just happened to span across two lifetimes.

John distanced himself from the bed. He smiled again, stronger this time, and relaxed his shoulders into their usual casual slope. For once, knowing the future didn't feel like a burden. He knew Liam, Benny, and Marcus, would all find happiness. They'd move on and so would John but unlike them, he would never forget any of this. You don't get kidnapped, tortured, and resurrected without getting attached. Near death, and in his case, certain death, often did that to people. Fighting alongside each other and battling pokemon at one another's side built a bond, a feeling, that time couldn't erode and memory couldn't forget.

John knew the truth of what happened and that's all that mattered.

His secret was safe, and so was Ho-oh's. She had returned to that other dimension, John could feel it, and she wouldn't be coming back. It was funny. After all the chaos and damage, the rainbow pokemon's sightings in Treasure Cove had become as obscure and disheveled as the truth of the business tower collapse. Her camouflage abilities, combined with the swiftness of her appearance, and the city's need to hide their underground secrets had buried her existence back into myth where it belonged.

John touched the center of his chest and felt the flame still burning inside. It was the last trace of Ho-oh's existence in this world. He lowered his hand and tucked it into his pocket. Perhaps there was a pocket in the world big enough to hide a misfit out of time like him? Somewhere simple and quiet where he could sneak his way through history unnoticed like his partner legendary pokemon. John pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up the Cork City Gym Badge between his fingers, the so called dirty penny left in his bag of possessions.

Some of the silver and blue color had chipped away. The bent edge had become permanent, but the fist could still be seen when you looked hard enough. John rubbed a thumb over it, polishing the shine with a little elbow grease. This trinket may only have the value of an acorn or a brightly colored leaf when compared to the other gifts adorning the room, but John still wanted to show his appreciation to the ace. Liam was the only one in the entire world that believed in rangers, mythical pokemon, and everything fantastical in between, and he had lost their truth in a single fleeting moment of _confusion_.

This badge, although he may never know it, was proof.

"From one friend to another," John whispered as he carefully set the badge on the countertop between the other gifts. He stared at it for a moment, smiling despite the tears welling in his eyes, and quickly looked up at the ceiling to hide them.

Despite all that he had lost in the future and all he was about to leave behind in the past, he was happy he took the leap off of that mountain cliff after Celebi. Next time, he might just do it on purpose.

John turned away and stopped at the edge of the curtain. He was tempted to look back, but knew better than to glance over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Angel," he said. "I'll see you soon."

It may take a couple of decades, but they would met again just like before. They just wouldn't know it at the time.

Time Travel, it gave him a headache.

John rustled his hair and left the room as silently as he had entered. He made his way down the hall, resting his free hand on his pokebelt as he went. A smirk played against his lips as he passed through the clinic and out the back door. No one noticed his leave. He looked up, winking against the brightness of the sunny blue sky and sighed.

Finally, he had room to stretch his wings.


	58. Epilogue: 1

**Epilogue: 1**

 _Time Come and Gone_

Was he dreaming? He had to be, because he couldn't remember the last time he felt so good.

Liam slowly winked open an eye against the soft satin pillow case pressed against his cheek. A tangle of poles, wires, and monitors blipped, dripped, and rustled beside him. Was he in a hospital? Fresh pressed sheets, the hum of medical equipment, and the smell of over sanitization, Liam sighed quietly to himself. He _was_ in a hospital.

AGAIN.

The ace rolled over onto his back and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. What kind of pokemon encounter was it this time to land him in this white walled brig? A battle, a catching gone wrong, or did he just piss off the wrong trainer, AGAIN? Sitting here thinking about it wouldn't help. He'd have to find the answers on his own by figuring out what was wrong with him. Liam wiggled his toes. They didn't sting and tingle. That ruled out p _aralysis_. The ace huffed several short breaths to test out his lungs. Not a trace of _sleep powder_ weighed them down, but his eyelids were still pretty heavy. Maybe he was here for p _oison_ treatment? The ace placed a hand on his stomach and it growled with hunger not nausea.

Maybe it was a fluke?

Liam sat up and a migraine streaked from ear to ear faster than a _thunderbolt_. His stomach sloshed, his ears rang, and the world spun in a kaleidoscope of color. He quickly closed his eyes and covered his mouth to keep the episode internal. When it was over, the ace dropped his hand with a sigh.

 _Confusion_ : The hangover of champions.

Liam couldn't remember how he got it or how he ended up in the hospital, but it was probably because he was doing something he wasn't supposed to. A snicker slipped between his lips. No surprise or confusion there. It wasn't a party until Liam Valenis toed the line of indecency and immorality, the first being a crowd favorite. At least the side effects of this episode were mild. That meant he either had a light case of the spins or he woke up like this asking the same questions for days now and just couldn't remember it. Liam didn't care one way or the other, as long as he wasn't vomiting all over the floor like the last time he was _confused_.

 _That_ he remembered.

As a veteran of vertigo, Liam knew better than to move too fast and aggravate his condition. The dizziness would pass on its own eventually, or he'd learn how to walk sideways instead. The ace sat back against the pillows and looked around the room in the meantime. Fingers of recognition slowly massaged out the blurry details and bits and pieces of memory slowly resurfaced. Liam remembered being in this room yesterday and a few days before that. Just how many, he couldn't tell, but doctors and nurses ran tests and asked questions periodically throughout. One set of scrubs in particular were very pleasant whenever they held his cheek for a pupil response. Liam snickered again.

Yeah, he'd be just fine.

The ace rubbed his hands over his face, still trying to wake up from the daze that had held him the past few days. Its grip was strong and it made him tired despite the progress he had made, but today's heaviness felt different, as if he had traveled some great distance across the universe in the blink of an eye. Dreams were like that. They traversed space and time as easily as dimensions. Earlier, he must have been dreaming to feel like this, although the notion of dreaming was more foreign to him than sleep itself.

Most nights, the celebrity ace counted stars through the bottom of a champagne glass and shook off the sandman with the bass of techno music. Sleep often meant dreams and dreams meant nightmares: cold sweats, a racing heart, and a dread of knowing you'd start it all over again tomorrow night. Liam Valenis was an idol always on the rise to victory, a pinnacle of success, and that legacy made a very high ledge to stand upon. One look down and he might just lose his balance.

Or jump.

Liam quickly stepped away from the edge. The only good part about being _confused_ was that it was like pressing the reset button on your life. You simply forgot what it was that was bothering you or what you had done to feel so crappy in the first place. That sleep was one of the best Liam had had in a while. Normally, he'd blame it on the prescription drugs, but from the looks of it, the only chemical pumping through his system was saline solution. No narcotics to blame for his good mood this time, only the dream. It left him feeling unusually pleasant and satisfied.

If only he could remember what the dream was about. Maybe then, he could make that dream a reality and finally find some meaning to his life. Money made miracles and God knows he had too much of it. Hell, he _was_ the epitome of an idol fantasy. Making a few dreams come true was just another business investment for a man like him. Now, he sounded like his father.

Talk about a real nightmare.

Liam yawned, stretched out the last of his fatigue, and glanced around the room with fresh eyes. White granite countertops, polished wood cabinets, and plushie soft white sheets, he must be in the best recovery ward on Silver Wing Island, although, Liam couldn't remember the name of it. Even when his brain fired on all cylinders the name often eluded him, but he recognized the suites. He was in them enough to call the clinic a second home. Although, the decorum was a little more colorful than usual. Flowers, balloons, and gift baskets filled the room from ceiling to floor. Judging from the sheer girth of gifts, his _confusion_ must have been either very life threatening or very public, maybe both. He'd have to check the newspaper to find out.

Feeling perky and innately mischievous thanks to the lingering effects of a good night's sleep, Liam carefully undid all the straps, needles, and wires connecting him to the medical machines. They were more protocol than necessary at this point. The doctors knew better than to think they would actually stop him from moving around. If they intended to keep him confined, they would have put up a baby gate: one over six feet tall, clad in black body armor, and a pokebelt. Besides, a curious active mind was a great sign of improvement for someone in his condition.

Liam smirked to himself, pulled away the blanket, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. His toes bypassed the slippers and went directly to the floor where they wiggled enthusiastically. It wasn't Cork City Dojo wood, but the ace was feeling unusually nostalgic so he stood up barefoot anyway. He even found his usual dojo warmups in the dresser next to the bed and quickly put them on. It was pretty sad when a hospital knew all your habits, but given his current spell of ignorance, it was nice to find things in their proper place. And if his favorite nurse was in, his warm ups weren't the only thing waiting for him. Liam returned to the bed. He pulled away the pillows and found his pokebelt underneath. The attached pokeballs flashed like freshly minted coins left behind by a fairy.

Liam teased a few thoughts about which fairy put them there until he realized one of his pokemon was missing. He traded the pillows for the belt and inspected each minimized ball in line. Athena wasn't where she was supposed to be, or was she? For all he knew, she was back in storage or in a healing machine somewhere. Liam's intuition didn't press the matter so he shrugged it off. If something was wrong he'd be able to tell. His instincts regarding his pokemon were just as heightened as his sensitivity to status conditions and looking at that empty spot didn't make him feel empty at all. In fact, it filled him with that same intangible satisfaction that dreaming had given him.

Funny. A whole bunch of nothing was starting to feel like something.

Liam quickly snapped on the belt and stroked its clasp like a lucky pendant. Now that he was fully dressed and ready for trouble, he would peruse his stockpile of gifts before venturing out into the hallway and flirting with nurses. There were flowers from his mother. From the looks of it, carnations were the theme of the week. Her hand-made arrangements probably sold at the price of gold in this warm weather.

Too bad she couldn't deliver it in person.

Roses from his father's company sat in a vase nearby. Classic in charm and color but cold considering the cardstock wedged within had a generic greeting that didn't include his name. The rest of the gifts were from friends, if business partners of his father's could be considered friends. There were baby's breath bundles, lilies, silk ribbons, and even a bottle of top shelf wine. Someone must have felt guilty about something. Then there was a warehouse full of cardstock, four helium balloons, and an open bottle of rum.

Nice one, Marcus.

Get well cards and store bought bouquets . . . that arrangement in the corner was fake. Liam could tell by the shine of the petals. One fruit arrangement sat on the edge of the countertop. Creative but distastefully warm. Just how long had it been sitting there? Liam turned his nose up at it and continued on. More flowers, extra sympathy's, too many "Get Well Soon"s. Same old, same old-Liam stopped. He turned his head to the side and took a step back.

Was that a – _No_ , it couldn't be.

The ace touched the pokebelt around his waist and moved a little closer, narrowing his eyes for clarity. His mind was still foggy but his senses wouldn't be fooled. He pushed aside several layers of leaves, foil wrappings, and lace to reveal a single gift set on the granite. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

 _It was!_

Liam picked up the Mountainside gym badge with two fingers and held it above the rest of the gifts. It wasn't his. He was sure of that. You don't simply forget earning a badge from one of the most prestigious and renowned trainers in the world. The ass kicking doesn't let you.

Liam glanced over both shoulders. Did someone leave it behind by accident? There was no way Master Ruji would honor a student with a badge just because they got knocked in the head a few times. That was standard initiation. Maybe one of the Dojo alumni left it when they came with Marcus to visit and drink his rum. Liam looked at the badge again.

It was pretty beat up. How many rounds with Master Ruji did it take to scuff it up so bad?

Liam smiled. He would have loved to see that fight, even more to meet the trainer that earned his right on the matts. Trainers were like their badges as much as their pokemon. This one was tough, a little beat up, but not broken. Never broken. Cork City made them that way. Some of the color had chipped off. One edge was a little bent and there was dirt permanently sealed in the corner. The badge wasn't smooth, shiny, or polished and yet the more he rolled it between his fingers, the more he wanted to keep it, like a lucky penny.

The trainer that owned this badge was a fighter, just not a very good one. He probably lost more than he won but never once considered backing down from a challenge. Just like a kakuna, he was annoyingly persistent, _hardening_ his resolve blow after blow _after blow_ until his opponent ran out of moves to use against him. The odds were never in his favor and he had to battle every step of the way to get as far as he did, but that was the most exciting part of the challenge. He was probably the only fighter who didn't know how to quit.

Give everything. Expect nothing and find happiness somewhere along the way.

Some would have thought this trainer a simpleton. Liam would have called him one of the good guys.

The ace chuckled as he flicked the badge into the air like a poker chip.

They probably would have made the best of friends.

The Mountainside badge flipped in the air, fell, and sharply _tinked_ against the floor. It bounced off into the foliage and Liam fell heavily into the bed board. He clutched his head as a nauseating array of images whisked across his vision. The maelstrom of memories threatened to make him puke.

Good guys. Bad guys. Bells in the woods. He saw it all. Fires and feathers. Cell mates, pokemon festivals, guilt trips, and hospital visits. They filled the ace's head in ways that didn't make sense. They collided and shifted like a watercolor painting filled with danger, good spirit, and a trainer who lived just like his beat up old Mountainside Gym Badge. Liam gasped, sucking in as much surprise as excitement. He remembered the dream he had. The dream that wasn't actually a dream at all but an adventure that had meant more to him than an entire lifetime of fancy booze, late night parties, and tournament trophies.

Liam couldn't grasp all of it yet or what it meant. The scattered bits and pieces of memory moved like ink in water, flowing from one feeling to another. They kept overlapping and blending, hiding the truth from him. And now, for some reason, they started slipping away. They drifted off into that dreamy void without anything to anchor them to this reality. They would leave him just like his good night's rest. The answers to Liam's _confusion_ were right in front of him. Why he was here, and why he suddenly felt so lonely, but he couldn't reach them. Not on his own. He'd have to find someone that could make sense of it all.

Liam whirled around, tripped on the bed stand, and fell into the greenery. Potting soil spilled across the floor, dusting him in black dirt. Dazed, the ace lifted his head and groped through the wreckage until he found the Mountainside badge under a pile of broken stems. He brushed it clean with his thumb as if discovering a gold doubloon in the sands of a pirate island.

The owner of this badge wasn't just a trainer, it was someone he knew. Someone who made enough sense of the world to change it and to change him. But every time Liam tried to picture the trainer's face, all he thought of was balloons and bloody bandages. Why? More images flashed across the ace's vision. He quickly put a hand to his head again. The memories moved too fast to see the full picture, but some things were clear, like iron bars, caramel popcorn, and a fire that sang as much as it roared. The truth was all right there in his mind, he could feel it.

Damn this _confusion_.

Foil crinkled under the ace's frantic scramble as he pulled himself to his feet. A heap of broken foliage and dusty black foot prints were all that were left of him as he ran out of the door. He glanced back and forth down the corridor, looking for the owner of the badge as if he too were just out of reach. A nearby nurse jumped at Liam's sudden appearance, but she must have tended to him and his antics before because she settled quickly.

"Where's the fire?" she asked.

Liam could have asked her the same thing. Instead, he held up the gym badge.

"Who left this in my room?" he asked.

The nurse adjusted her glasses and leaned a little closer. "Is that a gym badge?" she asked.

He'd take that as a no and there was no time to waste explaining details. Liam quickly tucked the badge back into his fist and changed tactics. "Did I have any visitors?" he questioned, the edge of his voice sharp with urgency.

The nurse set her glasses back in place. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I've been in the East Wing most of the day."

Of course, she wouldn't know. Nobody would. This mystery trainer had erased himself not just from Liam's mind but all of history. Liam turned away with hope still hot in his heels. After all, in this world of pokemon, even phantoms could be caught with the right set of tools.

"Wait, there was one visitor," the nurse suddenly remembered. Liam tripped again as he turned back to her, but this time, he caught himself before falling. "Mr. Bentley dropped someone off earlier today," she explained.

"Is he still here?" Liam pressed, once again looking down the hall as if the trainer was just around the corner.

"I don't think so. He didn't stay very long."

"Long? How long?" Liam asked with a feverish glint in his eyes. He was starting to sweat and not because of the sudden burst of activity.

Disturbed by the ace's unusual lack of charm, the nurse lost her smile. "I don't know, but Benny's been gone at least an hour or two."

It was more than enough to lose a tail but not so long as to dash all hope. There was still a chance to catch up to the mystery trainer. Liam's heart raced with the thrill of the chase.

"Do you know what he looks like?" he asked. Since his own memory failed him, he needed a description before racing off into the unknown.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get a good look at him."

If it wasn't one thing, it was another.

Liam would get his answers by following his only clue, the Cork City gym badge. He spun away from the nurse and sprinted down the hallway. It felt good to run. The faster the ace flew, the stronger he felt, and the clearer his head became. Hot blood pumped through his veins. Warm sweat ran down his temples, this was much better than laying in a suffocating feathered bed. Chasing down this one man lead felt as good as his heart pumping against his chest, reminding him that he was alive. It was as if chasing after this trainer connected some of the dots he was missing, and to lose him would be to lose everything.

The ace's bare feet gripped the tile floor better than a treeco's pads and he propelled himself into the lobby at full speed. Guests hurried out of his path. Patients didn't raise more than an eyebrow and the old janitor simply stretched out his mop like he always did. Liam slid underneath it, gliding swiftly to the other side on the soapy film. The front doors were in his hands by the time the desk clerk barked a reprimand. Ignoring it, the ace threw open the doors.

And not a single person so much as loitered in the parking lot.

"Does the doctor even know you're awake?" a voice skeptically inquired. Security guard, Parker Douglas, grunted as he stood out of his chair by the entrance. Patients didn't usually make a habit out of bursting through the front doors, but then again, this specific patient always had to be an exception to the rules. That's why the security counsel had to change their post from inside the lobby to outside the front door. The ace was always too fast to catch, but knowing which direction he ran off too always helped track him down.

"At least, you decided to get dressed this time," Parker continued as he adjusted the Clinic Logo patched baseball cap on his head. The clean shaven goatee around his lips had a habit of turning up in a smile whenever he talked. "The nurses will be disappointed."

Liam snorted, acknowledging the guard's subtle inquiry into his doings without removing his eyes from the horizon. There wasn't a sign of the trainer anywhere along the estate. He also didn't have the breath to respond.

"I think I know why you're in such a rush," Parker said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a minimized pokeball. He enlarged it and Liam recognized the shell immediately. Athena.

"Looking for this?"

The ace took the ball in his hand. The weight of it was familiar, but the feeling was different, as if his memory of it wasn't the same as the reality. Another wave of urgency flared through the ace's veins. He glanced up into the distance and squeezed the ball tight. Security Guard Parker Douglas recognized that look. The ace was likely to bolt.

"Some guy dropped that off for you," Parker explained, hoping to tether the ace in place with a little conversation. "He didn't want to go back inside so I said I'd give it to you the next time you came around."

"He didn't want to go b _ack_ inside?" Liam questioned, "Was he a patient?"

"Not that I know of."

"Does that mean he was visiting?" Liam looked down at the Cork City gym badge in his hand. Maybe this wasn't a get well gift after all.

Maybe it was goodbye.

Knowing the sensitive nature of Liam's condition, Parker stuck with the truth, or at least, what he knew of it. "I assume so," he continued. "Mr. Bentley drove him in, but he didn't come this way on the way out. Must've gone through one of the other exits."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"I make it a habit of knowing who walks into my house," Security Guard, Parker Douglas proudly announced. Liam loved the man for that, but he'd love him even more if he was as good as he claimed to be.

"I've never seen him before, but he looked a lot like those fellas from that gym you're always talking about. Big, burly, and tough as nails. He was pretty scary looking with all those cuts on his face."

It had to be Marcus. Liam sighed so hard he could have deflated, the weight of his _confusion_ squashing all hope. His stomach gurgled again, and this time, it wasn't from hunger.

"But there was something about him," Parker continued. "Something I can't really explain, like how people with a lot of charisma just kind of give off that good vibe feeling." He scratched his head, trying to come up with a better description, but it was enough for Liam.

It was him. It had to be him, the mysterious trainer with all of the answers. Liam snatched a pokeball from his waist. It clicked like the spinning barrel of a pistol.

'Whoa, now. What do you think you're doing with that?" the security guard asked.

"I'm not about to let him get away," Liam answered.

"He's not a wild pokemon, you know? You can't just chase him down and catch him."

"Of course I can."

Parker Douglas quickly reached out and grabbed Liam's arm. Despite the sunlight, the ace had paled dramatically since he first stepped outside the building. His breathing was labored and it wouldn't be long until a fever took him at this rate. What Liam wanted and what he _should_ do were a stone's difference between eevee evolutions, but there was something different driving the ace to the hunt this time. In fact, what Parker Douglas saw in front of him wasn't a celebrity ace at all or disorientation. It was a person. One who had been lost for so long that he didn't know what to do now that his compass had stopped spinning. Parker wiggled his slim mustache in silent debate, settled on a decision with a sigh, and motioned to the pokeball in Liam's hand.

"If you ride that flygon of yours, you're likely to kill yourself in that state. Your brains already rattled. I won't let it get scrambled with all that noise. We'll take the truck."

Liam's smile broadened, and together, they loaded into the company issued vehicle used for ground maintenance and deliveries.

"What direction do you suppose he's gone in?" Parker asked as he cranked the engine. "I lost sight of him once he crossed over the hill." The clinic grounds covered several acres and include several walking trails and a retention pond. Nature's solitude helped the ill at heart and mind, but not the restless wanderer.

"I have no idea," Liam admitted, "but I may know someone who does."

The ace switched the pokeball in his hand and then held it out the passenger side window. Athena took to the air powerfully when she was released, as if she knew something was wrong.

Liam watched her balance in the air between wingbeats. Her head swiveled in hopeful glances. Her body was tight, poised to change direction in a moment's notice. She was looking for something that wasn't where it was supposed to be, and the more she searched, the more Liam realized that the pidgeotto circled above only as a curtesy. The way her feathers rustled, legs moved, and wings tilted, she wanted nothing more than to whisk away into the clouds and find the part of her that was missing. And with her power and beauty, the only thing missing in her life was a mate. Liam didn't have to be a pokemon expert to know that Athena's loyalties had changed. Her real trainer was long since gone. Vanished after making one last house call and taking her mate with him.

Liam looked down at the Cork City gym badge in his hand again. His beautiful bird pokemon had finally found love and he had missed it. Just how much more had he missed? Liam quickly blinked back the mist from his eyes, cleared his throat, and leaned out of the car window, forcing a smile on his lips. His memories were foggy but Athena's were not.

"Go," he shouted up at the pidgeotto.

Athena looked down at him.

"Go!"

Is this what it felt like to marry off a daughter? The bird screeched with a _gust_ in every wingbeat. She circled higher in the sky, whistling in a way Liam had never heard before.

"Should I follow her?" Parker asked as he looked up through the windshield. Liam pinched his eyes against the sunlight as the bird pokemon grew smaller. He was starting to see double.

"Not yet," he said, waiting for the telltale wing dip that indicated Athena had locked onto her prey.

Up that high, the pidgeotto could see for miles, farther than anything they could get on ground level. Her screech was faded but it must have reached ears even sharper than her _keen eye_ because something shouted back in the distance.

"Go," Liam urged, slapping the side of the door enthusiastically, "Go, now!"

Security Guard Parker Douglas threw his body back into the seat and slammed his foot on the pedal. Gravel spat from beneath his tires as the company truck tore away from the driveway and onto the grounds. He fishtailed on the slick grass, stabilizing when he hit the dusty dirt road that weaved through the estate. Liam willed them faster, biting his lip and sticking his head out of the window to make sure he kept the pidgeotto in sight. He couldn't risk losing her, not when they were both chasing after the same thing.

This connection between the dream, Athena, and the gym badge wasn't just in Liam's imagination anymore. It was real, which meant his life had a deeper meaning, one that involved chasing someone who had apparently charmed his way into Liam's life, stolen his pokemon, and left without a goodbye.

Who did he think he was, a Valenis?

"There!" Liam suddenly yelled with a point down the road. Parker turned so sharply onto the asphalt that he fishtailed again. Small pieces of rubble clattered against the body of the truck as it bounced over the curb. This time, it was the security guard who whooped in exhilaration. The truck quickly straightened and accelerated again. Its engine hummed with an eager stream of gasoline.

Out in front, a person walked along the grassy median off to the side of the road. A shadow clung tightly to his side but it was angled against the sun, indicating that it wasn't a shadow at all but a pokemon, more specifically, a houndoom with horns curled as tight as a poliwhirl's spiral. It was the only darkness pokemon Liam had ever seen that took to the light so easily.

It had to be him. It just had to be.

"Stop!" Liam quickly instructed as they came upon the trainer. "That's him!"

Regaining his composure, Parker quickly obeyed and slammed on the brakes. The car jolted to a stop and Liam hopped out before the smoke rose from the tires. Breathless, he raised a hand against the bright light. He wanted a good look at this trainer, this ethereal dream he was destined to chase after from now until eternity.

Pokemon Champion, John Hawkins, stood well over six and a half feet tall. His stature was like that of his houndoom's, quiet and imposing, but his unshapely hair looked like more like the unkempt ears of a zigzagoon than devil's horns. Two sets of stitches tattooed his face. They would have put off anyone with a grudge but nothing about this trainer was sinister or dark, especially not his eyes. They could've glistened with starlight in the dead of night. He wore a jacket loosely draped over his shoulders. One arm hung in a sling and bandages wrapped his hands up to the wrists. More bandages wrapped his chest. Liam could see them where the fabric of the Champion's shirt had ridden up on his side. They even wrapped his head like something out of a street fighting video game.

This Champion was a brawler to be sure. Bruised, bright, and unbeatable.

"Hey!" Liam called as the dust of his landing settled. "Where are you going?"

John turned around and waved away the cloud of road dust. When he realized who it was that had hopped out of the vehicle, his entire body stiffened. "What are you doing out of the hospital?!" He shouted back.

Liam nearly bit through his lip trying to hold back a smile. Recognition. There was no denying it now. They had a history together, short and unmemorable as it may be. John instantly realized his mistake. Slinking away unnoticed didn't exactly work when you acknowledged the person you were trying to hide from.

"You shouldn't be here," John said, although the weight of his words made it seem as if _he_ was the one who didn't belong.

"And neither do you," Liam proudly retorted although he couldn't exactly explain why. He just knew that whatever _this_ was, it was wrong.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know you," John quickly said, walling off the ace's claims with happenstance.

"But I know you," Liam quickly countered.

John must have read something in the ace's body language because he pinched his eyes in doubt and that gaze staked Liam's bluff faster than an _ice shard_.

"How much do you remember?" he asked.

The Champion seemed at least eight feet tall then.

"Enough," Liam said, his smile weakening as quickly as his strength. All of the excitement was finally catching up to him. The _confusion_ had sucked away as much of his endurance as his memory. He risked his life pushing himself this far, but the same could be said if he let this trainer continue down the road. John watched him, sensing the desperate faith that had brought the ace to him. His lips hardened in a frown worthy of a Hailbringer.

"Don't read too much into it. I helped you out once and you helped me, but that's all." The Champion then turned away so firmly, Liam had no choice but to believe him.

Was he wrong? Was he so delirious with _confusion_ that he would hunt down strangers and believe in fairy tales like a child?

Security Guard Parker Douglas tentatively stepped out of the truck and joined them on the side of the road. He looked between the two trainers, uncertain if he should continue the chase or reconcile with the celebrity ace and bring him back to the clinic. Liam looked as if he was about to fall over, felt like it too, but the ace refused to go back empty handed. There was something that made him so damn guilty when he looked at this Champion that he knew his stupid recklessness had been the cause of all those bandages.

"If we don't know each other, then what's this?" Liam exclaimed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Cork City gym badge. He held it out like a pokedex, hoping to capture the identity of the person in front of him. Maybe, it might pick up on something. Ironically, it was the houndoom that stopped. The fire canine looked at Liam then nuzzled the Champion's closest bandaged hand, nibbling the fingers lightly for attention. John stopped and looked down at his pokemon. He then looked up into the sky where two pidgeotto flew side by side, chattering like lover's holding hands on a walk. Liam followed his gaze and smiled.

"Just look," he said, referencing to the two bird pokemon now gliding down to join them. Marco and Athena circled a few times, weaving in and out of one another's paths as if they had been doing it for years. "You can't tell me that doesn't mean something!"

John sighed, eyeing the birds with annoyance, especially when they perched on his shoulders and ruffled their chest feathers against his face, giving the ace's claims more credence. He quickly shook them off, now unable to avoid the truth of the ace's suspicions. Several feathers caught within his hair and jacket. They made Liam smile. Caught red handed. John turned around and sighed long and heavy as if he knew this reunion was inevitable.

"Fine, I'll tell you the truth about us," he relented, "but you won't believe me."

"Try me," Liam answered.

"I'm a time traveler," John began. "I was thrown back in time and landed in this era just as _confused_ as you are now. We meet at a pokemon festival although I don't remember how. That part we have in common. I just know that when my senses came too, I was in a hospital and you got me out of it. Then, I was kidnapped, tortured, and forced to fight in a cage. You saved my life." The houndoom flicked his tail and the Champion quickly corrected his statement. " _Our_ lives." The fire canine nodded lightly as if tipping a hat. "Somehow we took on an entire mob syndicate and lived. Well, most of the time anyway. And now I have to leave, for your safety as much as mine."

Liam wrinkled his brow and dropped his jaw with words he couldn't find. The Champion's confession wasn't quite what he expected. The ace worked his jaw, still unable to find a reply. Several seconds ticked by until he managed a single word. "Really?"

"Yes," John answered, as serious as the stiches on his face. Then, he said no more. His piece was done. It was now up to the ace to believe him or not. Liam glanced away and pursed his lips. He tried to put the pieces together but couldn't. There wasn't a single logical reason to all of this, but then again, this "time traveler" wasn't exactly sane. So why should he be? The only thing that made sense was to make no sense at all.

"Let's go on a Journey," Liam suddenly proposed.

This time, John was speechless. The absurdity of the question relaxed his tense posture into a more casual and befitting stance, one accustomed to the thrills and spills of a celebrity ace. They knew each other. They just had too. Liam could feel it in his soul.

"Are you crazy?" John asked.

"Not any more than you," Liam retorted. "I admit, the details of our acquaintance are a little foggy but that's exactly why we should go on a trip together. Get to know one another again."

"We can't do that."

"Why not? Do you have somewhere else to be or are you afraid of tampering with the timeline? Our future is what we make of it. Who cares about that kind of stuff?"

"I do," John announced, eyes flashing brightly in the sunlight. One would have thought they were made of molten gold. His resolve was fascinating to watch, like a wild pokemon finding its respect for its enemy at the end of a long and hard fought battle. It only made Liam want to catch him all the more. This Champion was resilient, Liam would give him that, but according to this badge, he was still a Cork City student and the best way to keep one of those around was to start a fight.

"So you'd abandon the future because you're scared of messing it up?" Liam taunted. "Sounds pretty weak to me."

"I'm not abandoning the future," John corrected, insult edging his tone. "I'm protecting it."

"By running away?"

"I'm not running away."

"Then, stand your ground. Stay here."

John glanced off to the side as if this wasn't the first time he had had this conversation. "I can't risk it."

"I can," Liam said.

"You'd risk the fate of the world for a stranger?" John asked, skeptical.

"Of course," Liam replied only too easily.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a stranger, you're my friend."

At that, John went very still. The word had meaning to him. It somehow connected their pasts together. Or was it their futures? John was supposed to be a time traveler after all. Liam looked up at the pidgeotto still flying above them, riding the wind as easily as if they were born on it.

"I can't remember how we met," he continued, "but my pokemon do." He removed Athena's pokeball from his belt and rolled it into enlargement between his fingers. "And I trust them more than anyone else." He tossed the ball at John and the Champion was so surprised that he almost dropped it. "You can't get rid of us that easily."

John looked down at the metal pressed against his chest, stuttering as if his heart had just fallen into his hands. Liam was no referee but he would have called that a KO hit. He sighed and all of the tension went with him, turning his legs to jelly. The world spun and he felt himself falling, but he never hit the ground. John was there, grabbing him by the arm and shouting at Parker to start up the car again.

Liam smiled, dazzled by the bright blue sky sparkling above him. Victory was at hand. They were headed back to the clinic. ALL of them.

Was he just as crazy as this so called time traveler to trust so easily? Maybe. But the ace was still a pokemon trainer, and that's what pokemon trainers did. They trusted in their pokemon, listened to their heart, and made friends along the way, even ones crazy enough to think they could travel through time.

"So whaddya say, Champ?" Liam asked as he hung off of the Champion's wide shoulder. His steel grey eyes flashed as they loaded him into the truck.

"Wanna go on an adventure?"


	59. Epilogue: 2

**Epilogue: 2**

 _A Year in the Making_

"Marcus, move your big head out of the way. No, no. John, you stay there. Liam, get in the middle."

The celebrity ace repositioned himself between the two Cork City Dojo students. Amidst all of the pidgeotto feathers, volcano pokemon shoulder rubbing, houndoom tail swishing, and makuhita hip bumping, he settled in quickly.

"Alright now, everybody look at the camera," the photographer yelled. He waved his hand and the shutter clicked. Afterwards, Liam quickly sprang out of the squashed group of trainers and pokemon and rushed over to the photographer, swinging tightly around his shoulder to sneak a glance at the back of the camera. Wandering photographer, Magnus Grey, lifted the digital display so Liam could see it but it didn't stop the ace from hovering over his shoulder anyway.

"It's perfect," Liam squealed, tugging against the photographer's jacket as he glanced over the picture.

"Of course it is," Magnus confidently exclaimed. "Spur of the moment shots like this are my specialty."

Although, the picture was more of a panorama than a snapshot. It included three trainers and their entire party pokemon, all too antsy to sit still for a single photo op. The picture caught Marcus mid shout, trying to shoo away the linoone rushing between his legs. Charles wasn't even looking at the camera. He was busy chasing B.B. the teddiursa in circles around the fighter's feet. His entire body would have been a blur if Magnus hadn't adjusted the speed settings and invested in top of the line equipment.

In the background, Marco and Athena were perched on Hamilton, the swampert's long head fins. They nuzzled one another's beaks, unashamed of being caught on film in a lover's embrace. Liam stole the spotlight in the very center of the picture. He struck a celebrity's pose. Zoro, the combusken, and Porthos, the makuhita mimicked him on either side. Sonya, Beats, and Lucy, the flygon, were the only ones sophisticated enough to smile like the respectable pokemon they were. All the while, Saul sulked in the corner with his back to the camera. If he couldn't be center stage, he didn't want to be involved at all.

Then, there was John on the far right of the picture, crouched close to the ground with one arm wrapped around his houndoom's neck as if he were still small enough to ride the fire canine. Some parts of the photo were blurry. Not all of the pokemon were positioned quite right but the setting and stances only unveiled their personalities all the more. One glance at this picture and you knew it had a story. Each time you read it, you found something new. Liam playfully shook Magnus by the shoulders.

"You're a genius," he praised, eyes still tracing the lines of the photograph.

"And you're lucky we just happened to run into each other on the road," Magnus added as he lowered the camera and blipped through the pictures he caught before the photo op even started. "If anyone else tried to take that shot you would've ended up with a cookie cutter tourist Polaroid in front of some beat up old fork in the road."

Liam looked up from the camera to their surroundings. Everyone had grouped for the shot in front of the entrance to the Burned Forest, if a small gap in a wall of overlapping tree trunks growing two stories high could be called an entrance. The only thing that delineated the start of the forest trail from the road was an old log stuck in the ground. Or at least, that's what most people thought it was when they happened to pass by.

John had taught him otherwise. That piece of wood was actually a pokemon totem erected by the native people that worshipped these woods long ago. Those ancient people once stood in this very same spot, looking up into the arching boughs of the canopy, knowing they were about to step into another world. Liam understood how they must have felt. He deeply inhaled the rich scent of the woods, smiling as if he could taste the magic.

"You know that Trainer Trail is one of the most dangerous in the region," Magnus warned. He glanced between the trees as if they were scowling at him and his mechanical equipment. "Most trainers don't make it a fourth of the way through without calling for a rescue team, and that's just on the main path. If there's still one left."

"I'm sure we can manage," Liam said. He glanced away from the dark shadow of the looming forest to the Champion whistling softly to his pidgeotto as if in conversation. "We've got one helluva guide. Besides," he shifted his glance to Marcus. The great burly bear of a man accidentally stepped on Charles and cursed, more unbalanced than he had ever been in his entire life. "I think Marcus is hoping we run into a hibernating ursaring."

Unable to if that was a joke or not, Magnus returned to the comfort of his glowing blue screen. He raised the lens again and saw John attempt to diffuse the situation. The Champion reached for Charles when the linoone darted by but ended up catching his foot on the tail of his arbok instead. Saul immediately flared and reared back, bumping his thick hood into John's back. The Champion went sprawling but Lopo's quick reflexes saved his trainer a chin full of dirt. He snatched John by the back of the pants and pulled him upright. Suddenly vertical again, John wasn't sure what had happened. He merely laughed and rubbed the back of his head.

The camera's shutter clicked again and Magnus pulled back from the screen. "I see you finally did it," he exclaimed with an amused shake of his head.

"Did what?" Liam asked with another peer around the photographer's shoulder.

"Form that Trainer Team you always wanted. Your Knights of Swords and Round Table whatever. It's all you ever talked about at school, especially when the tournaments came around."

" _Oh no_ , don't get him started," Marcus interrupted as he walked into the conversation with Zoro on his shoulder. The combusken leapt from the fighter's shoulder onto Liam's much narrower but smoother muscle.

"Get started on what?" John asked from behind. He set his linoone on the ground and he immediately started rolling in the dirt and grass until Beats initiated another game of chase. In an instant, they were off.

"Liam's got this idea to start his own Trainer Team," Marcus explained with an accusatory hitch of his thumb at the ace. "You know, one of those fancy Trainer Guilds or whatever that parade around thinking they're the shit."

"And usually are," Magnus quickly added before the colors of his Alma Mater were defiled by the insults spewing from the fighter's mouth. "Liam's wanted to form one since grade school. They tend to become big league sponsors."

"So why haven't I heard of it?" John asked. Given the celerity's reputation and battle record, trainers from all over the region would have flocked to join him and his crusade. It shouldn't have been hard to find a couple of aces strong enough to form a guild.

"Liam claims he hasn't found anyone worthy enough to join," Magnus explained as he put away his camera.

"More like, no one can keep up with the lunatic," Marcus snorted. "That, and I think we all had our fill of gangs back in Treasure Cove."

Magnus froze, eyes widening in disbelief. "Treasure cove?" he gasped. "That was you?"

A year had passed since the secret caves under Treasure Cove collapsed but the front page headline of that day still shone brightly in every photographer's mind. It included a full page picture of the twisted wreckage. Sharp steel and iron fingers stuck out of the concrete grave, reaching for a full double rainbow perfectly placed over the site. The angle of the light, moisture in the air from the storm, and reflection of the surrounding glass towers had created a perfect multicolored halo. The owner of that picture had made photographic history . . . and millions. It still inspired Magnus to this day.

"Holy shit," he exclaimed, dumbfounded that he stood in the presence of what some media outlets had labeled as heroes in the wake of the disaster. "You do know that became one of the biggest gang busts in history, don't you?"

"I'm expecting an update from my lawyer very soon," Liam teased. "But never mind that." The ace walked over and slapped Marcus mightily on the shoulder. "There's more than two of us now. There's nothing wrong with giving ourselves a name now that we're officially Journeying together."

Marcus rolled his eyes so far back in his head that he might have gone unconscious. "If you give me one more of those stupid f-," Porthos quickly covered his ears like Master Ruji taught him too when the fighter's temper boiled over, "-names and I'll mount your head on a pike."

"Ignore him, John," Liam instructed as he slipped away from the bad egg, looped an arm around the Champion's shoulder, and led him away from the unbelievers. "You understand what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Sounds fun. Like when someone gives you a nickname," he answered.

"Does that mean you officially want to join? All it requires is a hero complex and a heart of gold," Liam turned back to Marcus and winked. "Armor optional."

"Sure. Why not?"

"In that case, you can be my first lieutenant."

"I thought I was your lieutenant?!" Marcus snarled, suddenly reinvested in the conversation now that his title was threatened. He locked his hands into fists and marched towards the pair. Lopo saw him coming and remembered the day they crossed horns at the dojo. He slowly slipped between the two parties easier than a shadow at dusk. Marcus stopped short of John and Liam and growled his displeasure. The houndoom growled back. Marcus clenched his teeth, weighed his options, and snorted, uncurling his fists with a casual back step. Lopo lifted his chin and swished his tail, victorious.

Saul, aroused by the tension but fully aware that he could beat neither fighter nor hound, misdirected his aggression onto the only party present that didn't offer any type of threat or retaliation, John. He body slammed the Champion right off his feet. Liam ignored the assault, crossed his hands defensively over his chest, and stepped up to the bronze skinned fighter. Marcus' earlier slight to his tournament Team fantasies would not be forgotten so easily.

"First Lieutenant? You wouldn't even make a good grunt," the ace announced. "I'm demoting you to lackey."

"Like hell," Marcus spat. "I'll earn my title back." The fighter tore off his shirt and threw it to the side. It landed on Porthos' head and the makuhita methodically began to fold it just as Master Whey had taught him too when the fists started flying.

"Johnny is my loyal subordinate and deserves my protection," Liam exclaimed. "If you want to get to him, you'll have to go through us first." Zoro chirped and flipped into position on the ground in front of him, sparks hot and ready.

"You traitorous bastard!" Marcus howled at the combusken. "Porthos, get over here and let's show'em what a real Trainer Team looks like."

Fighter and guts pokemon simultaneously slapped their thighs and stomped their feet into the ground, but whereas Porthos flattened dirt, Marcus struck the bottom half of the quilava that had taken to Charles' habits of running over his feet. Beats squeaked better than a rubber toy and blazed with fury and surprise. Flames shot up over Marcus' leg. The fighter jumped back in a yelp unfit of a man as big as himself, tripped over the linoone rushing to investigate, and fell to the side to avoid crushing them both with his massive buttocks.

Liam and Magnus starting laughing. It took almost a minute before the ace caught his breath and turned to John with a long sweep of his arm.

"Behold your fellow trainers at arms!" he exclaimed. "Welcome to the Greyblades!"

It took a moment for John's brain to kick in and sort through a whole year of lucky breaks, hard losses, and fool hardy shenanigans on the road to remember where and when he had come from. And when he did, his lips began to quiver. Tickled with irony, the Champion suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, holding his ribs as if to keep them from falling apart. Marcus, Liam, and Magnus all turned to him, brows raised in ambiguous concern. Hilarious as Marcus' fall had been, it wasn't hysterical. They would have thought the Champion mad if they didn't know he was already insane.

Lopo trotted over and nudged the Champion's hand. His wet nose brushed against the shiny tight skin of a burn scar in John's palm. Wrinkled and discolored, it matched the unnatural line creasing the palm of his other hand. John liked to think the two scars gave him a better grip on reality, and right now, he needed to hold onto it with all of his strength.

"Look, he's so overcome with joy to join our cause that it's brought him to tears," Liam exclaimed.

"Cut me a break," Marcus gagged.

"And do us a favor," the photographer cut in. "Put your shirt back on. This is a public place. What the hell is wrong with you?" The photographer took the shirt from Porthos and threw it in Marcus' face. "The only reason John's laughing is because he's finally realized how ridiculous the lot of you are," Magnus continued.

"Speaking of ridiculous, did you get a video of that fall?" Liam asked.

"In full HD baby."

Marcus quickly whirled around and stabbed a calloused finger at the photographer with the intensity of a pitchfork. "Delete that right now," he ordered. Magnus raised his phone and took another picture. The fighter launched himself at the artist and a melee ensued, involving pokemon and humans in a game of "Keep away" that would eventually end with a few bruises and twice as many inside jokes. The show was definitely enough to bust a gut for any observer but that wasn't the real reason John found it all so hilarious.

After all, a time traveler had his secrets.

If Fate would have it, this rag tag Team of three would eventually grow into one of the biggest, most successful trainer guilds in the world, but John wouldn't be able to tell anyone that. There were just some things Marcus and Liam didn't need to know, and they seemed to be OK with that because they never pressed about his past. They had their own demons to battle with. John just happened to walk side by side with his. The Champion placed a hand on Lopo's great horned head, sighed, and listened to the happiness of his decision.

John accepted Liam's offer to go on a Journey because his choice to return to Treasure Cove riding on Ho-oh's back had already made an irrevocable mark on the future. There wasn't much more he could do to impact it after being caught red handed trying to sneak away, but John was confident that the future he knew was on its way to fruition anyway. He could see it the more he let his past go and lived true to himself in the present. It was a delightfully surprising foresight to have, but there was no need to ruin the surprise for the others. If John left out the details of what might lay ahead and focused on what was in front of him, there were only three friends on a Journey that led them across several regions, toppling countless gyms and challenges along the way.

John rubbed the scar over the bridge of his nose. It had healed nicely, along with the cut over his eye but part of his eyebrow had been permanently lost to the wreckage of the business tower. He finally looked the part of a Cork City gym student. Sensei would have been proud. Technically, he already was. Marcus had a tendency to smirk every time he looked at it. Once in a while, John caught Liam staring at his scars like a kadabra on a spoon as well.

The ace never fully recovered from Madam Jade's _confusion_ attack and his memories of those two weeks were muddy at best. Most of what he knew was from Marcus and Benny's recount of events but it wasn't enough to satisfy the ace's curiosity. After all, he had kept secrets from them as well. He knew he had witnessed something incredible and forgotten it.

Liam insisted their Journey wasn't about finding legendary pokemon or collecting their relics but John could see it in the ace's eyes that Liam thirst for the truth. John supported Liam the best he could without spilling the beans on the turmoil that led up to the collapse, but it was a wasted effort. Marcus confessed to everything, Ho-oh, gang wars, and fancy _Wings_ , all in one drunken spur of the moment side of the road pokemon melee with a couple of passing strangers.

They wrote him off as being crazier than John.

But, living in the past wasn't all that bad. In fact, it didn't feel any different than the future. John slowly ran his hand along his pokebelt. Marco, Athena, Saul, Charles, and Lopo, they were his family and they grew happier and stronger every day no matter the era. His fingers drifted over to the silver switch blade snapped onto his belt. It was a parting gift. One last piece of advice from a Polisher who knew better than to dredge around in the mud with a couple of knuckleheads.

John could hear Vermillion's sultry voice even now. If he had been awake when she came to visit him in the hospital and slip him the knife, she probably would have said something like: "Watch your back because you never know who might stab it." Choice words of wisdom from a contract killer, one John was pretty sure had saved his life. He planned to repay her by living his to its fullest.

The Champion glanced up into the wall of wood before them. Its shadowy recesses grew taller before him like the shadow of a rising cliff. The next real leg of their Journey was to hike through the Burned Forest, a challenge worthy of only a few Elite. These woods were old, but not as old as some of the ones he knew in Valenis. It was said that a great fire ravaged the land, burning tree and timber, razing the great green expanse completely to the ground. The land was barren, salted with white charcoal. Ghosts of the dead rose out of the ashes, creating the forest as it is today. Haunted, untamed, and cursed.

John smiled. He knew a lot about curses. Fire too. And more often than not, phoenixes rose up out of ashes, not ghosts.

John closed his eyes and took a slow meditative breath. Centuries young and the forest still teamed with mystic power. He could feel it. The woods had a presence that drew him in, and not just for the nostalgia of a wooded hometown. It was as if the creeping fingers of moss reached out to him in longing. Branches leaned forward to clutch him in their embrace. Shadowy canopies blocked out the light and John felt the darkness envelope him. It had power to it, like the thump of a heart unseen in a creature's chest. A whistle rode the air, soft and faint as if a gentle wind played with the tops of a thousand acorns. It gave the forest a voice that whispered in a tongue too old for humans to understand. John tilted his head lightly. It almost sounded like the chime of a bell, a ringing in the woods . . .

"Are you ready to get going or what?" Marcus yelled.

John opened his eyes. The woods were still before him. The pokemon totem stared at him with worn unblinking eyes but the ringing had stopped and the sun was still out. The heart of the forest beat too quietly to hear. Everyone was shouldering their gear and packing up. Had he fallen into a state of meditation and lost some time again?

"Thanks again Magnus," Liam said as he shook the photographer's hand. "I expect the first print of that shot."

"I don't know, I might just keep it for my private collection," Magnus teased with a clap of the ace's shoulder. John blinked again. Everyone's party pokemon were withdrawn except for his own. Magnus was already on his way out and Marcus and Liam were looking back at him with puzzled expressions.

"You coming?" Marcus growled, ready to get this artistic fiasco behind him and return to more important matters, like finding an ursaring to wrestle.

"Not getting cold feet, are ya Champ?" Liam asked with a pull of his persian perfect smile.

Setting the strange sensation aside, John quickly hopped over and picked up his gear. "Of course not!" he hastily replied. Navigating maps and trails were his life's work. Like he'd let a couple of amateurs traverse the wilderness with nothing but a compass. Charles quickly ran past the pokemon totem into the start of the trail, eager to show them the paths he had already discovered. Lopo casually joined the group and Marco and Athena patiently waited to be withdrawn. In such dense foliage they couldn't fly side by side, so they preferred to ride side by side at their trainer's expense.

Saul lingered behind. He was less than thrilled to start a new adventure. He didn't like the woods, or dirt, or rocks, and trees, but _especially_ not these. Forests weren't supposed to have eyes and this one had been watching them ever since they first arrived. Saul didn't like it. He didn't like anything he couldn't bully into the ground with a well-aimed shove. The cobra spread his hood and spat at the trees to show his disgust. A sudden breeze cut through the canopy, causing the leaves to rustle so loudly that they smothered speech.

A branch snapped and Saul quickly flattened his hood, slithered over to his Champion, and pushed him over again. Liam started to laugh but the cobra was less than amused as he coiled on top of his trainer.

Forests weren't supposed to have eyes.

They weren't supposed to hiss like a cobra either.


	60. Epilogue: 3

**Epilogue: 3**

 _A Century of Searching_

The future may have been rewritten, but there were some things that remained the same.

First to tire and last to finish, John couldn't keep up with his pioneering cohorts as they hiked their way through the Burned Forest. Liam's giddy enthusiasm for all things wild was almost as tiring as his unending tirade of questions involving pokemon tracking, plant identification, and survival skills. Even without mountains to climb, Marcus had risen to the Trainer Trail challenge. He took it upon himself to conquer every fallen tree, briar bush, and mud hole that crossed their path as if it were a heated rival.

More often than not, the trail was too narrow to walk side by side so they traveled in a single file. The fighter had too much pride to bring up the rear, and Liam's curiosity needed to be contained, so John often hiked double duty. First, to lead and make sure they weren't about to head into the mating grounds of a male girafarig or the catacombs of a beedrill nest. Then, to double back and make sure they didn't lose the trail (or a party member). That didn't even count catching back up again.

Navigating wouldn't have been so bad if Marcus hadn't crushed their one and only compass in his big meaty fist.

Not that it mattered anyway. The needle began spinning in circles days ago. Their pokegear stopped working even before that so climbing the tallest evergreen every night to read the stars was the Champion's daily lullaby.

John placed his hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. His hair had gotten long. It peeked over his line of sight as he winked up through a labored pant. The air under the canopy was muggy and hot. John would have given anything for a breeze, but not a wisp of wind could make it through this dense foliage. Surprisingly, the woods were thick and dry despite the heat radiating from them. John would have thought himself in the middle of a drought if it weren't for all of the green around him. It could have been a rainforest if there was water anywhere other than his skin. He was sweating twice as much as usual and drinking enough to quench a squirtle's thirst.

John slicked back the hair from his eyes. Charles and Lopo, being the expert mountaineers that they were, would've helped navigate the woods and keep the misfits in line, but the two were currently as useful as Marcus' sense of direction. Charles was unusually distracted. He darted away from the trail so much for so long that John was afraid he'd get lost and Lopo wouldn't stop staring at him. At night, his eyes flashed green and silver, even without the aid of a campfire, scaring Marcus and Liam into girlish yelps more than once. That black gaze seemed unusually deep in the shade of these trees. They reminded John of the canine's near death experience in the Cage and that was too unsettling to travel with all the time.

John would have gladly released his pidgeotto but open skies were their calling, not vines so twisted that they barely let in any light. Their wings weren't built to hop between branches like a spearow's. Besides, Marco and Athena wouldn't be separated in flight. They would prefer to ride along at his side than weave around the trees separately.

Then, there was Saul. He wasn't even allowed out of his pokeball anymore. The cobra was in such a foul mood that he tried to bite Liam's head off for simply looking in their direction. The first night they camped under the trees, Saul had coiled so tightly around him that he had gone unconscious by morning. Marcus tried to free the captive by force and got bit for it. Liam attempted to use his pokemon but he was too afraid of hurting his friend underneath to make a difference. In the end, it took two curled horns and one well-placed smack between the eyes before he was freed.

So the Champion walked alone.

Just not by choice.

"Johnny, come here and take a look at this!" One of the adventures yelled through the underbrush. John looked up at the two trainers deeper in the woods ahead of him. After several days of hiking with no significant injuries, several close encounters, and only one near miss, Liam and Marcus had taken to trailblazing and had grown overly confident in their ways. They both squatted around something on the ground and Marcus took it upon himself to hoist away some of the leaf litter covering whatever it was they were looking at. It was a great way to get bit by a wild pokemon.

Better catch up again before someone lost a finger.

John pushed away from the tree and continued down the overgrown stantler trailer that weaved through the forest. Two years at the dojo strengthened him tremendously in body and mind but hiking virgin terrain required a different type of coordination. How to step between stony crags without twisting an ankle or grab a section of bark without breaking it off under your fingers was an art, not a skill. And as John quickly learned after their first few days of traveling, he was a little rusty.

This leg of their Journey had been a true test of his mountaineering skills, but considering their lack of mountains in this ocean of timber, he was doing pretty well. Comparatively, Marcus and Liam had far more scratches and holes in their clothes but luckily, Porthos made a wonderful stitch. No one complained and even Marcus had come to trust the Champion's guidance enough to ignore the dangers of exploring the wilderness. Even now he indulged in a little childlike amazement.

"I wonder what it is?" the fighter whispered, crouching so low to the ground that he might as well have laid upon it.

"I can tell you right now," Liam excitedly pointed. "This is a pokemon nest and that's a pokemon egg!"

Marcus removed his gloves and started flicking away the surrounding twigs. John jogged up moments later and looked down at the nest. A single pokemon egg had fallen to the side within it. Suddenly re-energized with the discovery, the Champion quickly knelt down with the others. Liam was right. This was definitely a pokemon nest. The ground was flattened and shaped, but the topmost layer of leaves was dry and unbroken, brittle and intact. Several twigs were out of place and some had fallen lose all together. No hair, no food, bones, or dung littered the space. John glanced around and the outer ring of foliage was just as undisturbed as the inside. The nest was abandoned, along with the single pokemon egg inside of it.

"What species is it?" Marcus asked.

John leaned into the nest and ran his fingers over the grooved surface of the egg. His head slightly tilted with it, a habit he picked up from Aria Wicket. The egg was small. Color, neutral. No cracks, dents, or punctures that he could see.

"What do you make of it?" Liam asked.

"This is my first time seeing it in person, but given the area, the egg, and the season, I think it was an eevee nest," John explained.

" _Was_?" Liam gasped with a sudden awful realization.

"This nest is old, cluttered. Nobody's been here for a while."

"And they left an egg behind?" Marcus asked. "Something wrong with it?"

"It's possible," John explained. "Sometimes mothers can sense deformities in their hatchlings and abandon them, but there's also a chance something happened to mom and she never came back. If an egg doesn't hatch on time with the others, the family group can move on and leave it behind. There's just no way of knowing for sure what happened."

John stole a second glance around the area. So far, they hadn't been attacked by a raging nest mother. Eevee weren't the most defensive of species when it came to their young but they weren't willing to let a clutch go so easily because something bigger than itself wandered up. In fact, an active nest shouldn't have been found so casually. It was safe to assume that this was another lost hatchling in the big wide wood.

John could relate.

He carefully shifted the egg a little closer and picked it up. There was weight to it. No rot or softness either, all good signs.

"Is it still alive?" Liam quietly asked. He glanced back and forth between Champion and egg, eager to pick up more wilderness lessons, no matter how grim. Unfortunately for him, some lessons couldn't be explained. John held the egg close to his chest and took several deep breaths. He then tapped it lightly, sniffed it, and held it against the side of his cheek. He closed his eyes, rolled to egg to his ear, and listened.

A smile tugged at his lips.

"It's alive," he happily announced.

In what health, he couldn't be sure but Liam didn't care. Alive was alive and the ace had a new found respect for anything with a will to live. He leaned over and held out his hands to take the egg. He wanted to follow the same routine as the Champion and check for himself. John passed off the egg and Liam cradled it as if it were made of sugar glass. A chansey would have been proud. It was all Marcus needed to know their Trainer Team just got a little bit bigger.

"Now, look what you've done," Marcus sighed.

"We can't just leave it," Liam explained as he unzipped his jacket, tucked the egg inside, and zipped it up again.

"Don't you have enough pokemon already?"

"Sonya needs something to warm now that Beats refuses to sleep underneath her."

John expected that something like this would happened eventually, from trainer and typhlosion. Although, Sonya might not get much of a chance to play mother again from the way Liam had that egg nestled inside his jacket.

John stood up and brushed off his knees. His backpack rustled as he bent over, causing something to tap against the tin tentacruel button on his backpack. Or at least, that's what John thought the sound was until it rang like a distant chime, brushing his hearing like the gentlest of feathers.

The Champion quickly turned his head to catch the sound but it disappeared instantly as if the movement of his shirt collar against his neck was loud enough to smoother it. John waited to see if it would return, and just when he thought it was a figment of his imagination, it chimed again, only this time, from the opposite direction. The sound was soft, musical even, as if a fairy had floated past his ear while humming a tune. John quickly turned around to face the woods.

"Did you guys hear that?" he asked.

Marcus and Liam exchanged several remarks about the pokemon egg, unaware of the disturbance. Their voices quietly faded to the background as John scanned the trees, tuning out anything that might distract him from his search. Something was different about the woods before him. There was a depth to them that drew him in. The dark space between here and there stretched and grew, alluding to a place that existed just beyond.

The forest was silent now. Leaves didn't rustle and there was no wind to stir the branches, but something was still tinkling like metal on metal, and sometimes even wood on wood. It reminded John of the chimes his mother used to set out on their front porch. There was never much of a breeze in the mountains to rattle them, but once in a while, they would knock softly together and chime like the touch of an old pleasant dream. It sounded just like home . . .

"Like hell if I know," Marcus suddenly said, his voice husky from laughter. He stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let's ask the expert. Whadaya think John, boy or girl?"

There was no answer. The fighter turned to the side and there was no trainer. The Champion was gone.

"John?" The fighter walked out several steps but paused, unsure of which direction to go in. He wasn't the one who knew how to read the curl of a root within the ground or the creep of moss along a stone.

"Where the hell did he go?"

John wasn't quite sure himself but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. He made his way through the trees, deeper into the wood without breaking his gaze from the path ahead of him. The trees grew thicker, taller, and older the farther he went. Soon, he was squeezing between tree trunks spaced so tightly together that he could barely walk straight. His broad shoulders had to dip and turn to slip through. John narrowed his eyes, ducking underneath the dark boughs of a fir tree.

Just ahead, yellow light glowed between the cracks in the woven wall of wood. It was too bright to be weakened by a forest canopy. There must be an open patch of space just beyond the wall to let the sunlight shine through so strongly. It was as if someone had taken a flashlight and was trying to peek through the trees from the other side. John came up to the wall and used his elbows and back to muscle his way between the trees. If he could just squeeze through. . .

The Champion stumbled out and fell into a clearing. He narrowly smashed his head on an outcrop of mossy rocks in the process but the forest was generous enough to cushion his landing with a thick bed of leaf litter. Behind him, the tree wall seemed to move. It creaked like old leather as the stiff ancient lungs of the forest relaxed from its long and slow breath.

John got to his feet and blinked against the sudden brightness of the space. Having walked under the canopy for days, his eyes were used to the dim darkness of the forest. He raised a hand to shade his eyes but the tower in front of him did so nicely. It rose up out of the ground like an antenna, stacked in tiers several stories high. The tower barely extended beyond the canopy before it abruptly ended in rough edges where the top had seemingly snapped off. There was no telling how high the tower once stood, especially when the surrounding trees had suddenly grown several more stories in height as if this section of wood was a place entirely different than the Burned Forest.

Maybe it was the forest before it burned?

There was plenty enough vegetation to make it true. All manner of vines and plant life grew up the walls of the broken pagoda. Moss and lichen cemented the weathered tiles of the roofs together. The tower itself was made of wood as old and as soft as the totem at the very start of the trail miles and miles away. Whatever was left of the paint had faded to dirty washes of color barely discernable from the timber itself. The edges of every opening were blackened as if they had burned from the inside out. John lowered his hand, just as fascinated as he was perplexed.

This place wasn't on any of the maps he researched before coming to the Burned Forest.

Wherever this was, it existed long before compasses, and therefore, couldn't be found by them, but the traces of humanity were still there. Stone markers rose up out of the ground all around the tower's base like tapered cypress knees. They weren't natural or random in placement or design but John couldn't quite make out their purpose. Wind, rain, and sun had worn their faces and edges smooth. Moss crowned the tops and crawled down to the earth where their roots soaked up nutrients. Although some plants seemed to find sustenance from the stone itself.

Which was impossible, but so were time travelers.

John examined the nearest marker. It rose as high as his hips. Something had been engraved along the sides but time had long since stolen its secrets. He touched the crown of moss and a tingle went up his spine. This place, this sensation, it felt exactly like the clearing he stumbled upon in the Valic Mountain Range with Celebi. John's heart beat a little faster thinking about it. He had been in this place before, just not with a pixie.

This was Ho-oh's tower.

Somehow, he had passed through another dimensional rift like he did back in Boulder. No wonder he felt so hot. His soul was burning again, just like his first experience with the _Rainbow Wing_.

John carefully approached the doors of the tower, nervous but not afraid. Would he find the legendary bird inside or just her ashes? The thought stopped him at the entrance. The double doors were cracked open. Its bolted fastenings were orange and brittle with erosion. One push and the entire door might drop to the floor. If there was someone still inside, barging in hardly seemed appropriate.

John measured the opening with a glance and slipped through without snagging a single splinter. The inside was more spacious than he anticipated, probably because there was nothing in it. No furniture, floors, or decorations. There was nothing to examine or loot but berries and acorns. Nothing to see but the traces of flame. The inside of the walls were black as charcoal. The tower was hollow and empty but not dead or dark.

In fact, it was more bright and alive than the eerie shaded darkness under the trees of the Burned Forest. Enough vines crawled up the surrounding walls to be the inside of a tree. They kept the tower standing and reinforced the ancient wood with new strength.

Giant gaping holes ate the center of every floor from ground to sky levels, leaving nothing but a narrow ring of wood around each tier. The tower was truly hollow without a single floor or ceiling to hamper one's view of the sky above. The empty center and lack of a roof allowed water and light to enter. The climbing vines grew over themselves at the exposed top, buffering the serrated edges with leaves, petals, and flowers in a pleasing arrangement.

A natural spotlight beamed down from the hole, shadowing John and the blackened walls like an audience in a black box theater. It illuminated the very center of the tower where a garden of flowers now grew, replacing the statue or monument that once stood there. Weeds, young trees, and flowers alike blossomed in the strong yellow glow. They sighed open and closed as the sunlight came and went.

Wild grass had eaten through the floorboards of the ground level, cushioning the echo of movement in the tower's forgotten skeleton. Tiny spores and seeds lazily drifted through the light, bringing both fullness and emptiness to the space in a spring snowfall. John stepped up to the edge of the spotlight and dipped his fingers inside. They warmed instantly and the reflection of his sweating skin glistened better than the flash of a mirror.

John smiled and looked up through the hollow pagoda. He couldn't tell if something heavy had fallen through the levels all the way to the ground floor to break them or if something had burst its way out to the top. If these ruins contained any murals on the walls, they might have offered some type of clue, but the soot and shadow of the walls around the beam hid those stories. Some of which suddenly took shape and rose out of the darkness above him. John didn't notice them before because of the sudden brightness of the spotlight in the gloom, but now that his eyes had adjusted, he counted three gastly up above him.

They hovered in the center of an empty floor several levels up. They weren't usually out at this time of day, but if they floated just outside of the stream of light pouring in from the ceiling, the shadows of the tower were dark enough to indulge their cruelty. They flapped their taunting tongues at a pokemon trapped between them. She was much smaller than them. The cool undulating pale greens and whites of her skin stood out brightly against the sharpened black blotches of living darkness, especially in the safety of the light.

Her translucent wings hummed lightly. The sound strengthened to musical standards every time she tried to break free of the ghostly triangle, but the gastly cut her off every time, snapping the cords to her song. The ghosts edged closer, tightening their formation to enter the light. It was a tactic of many a successful soul sucking hunt, and with their prey so close at hand, they were willing to risk exposure. The smaller pokemon couldn't fight all three at once.

"Celebi!" John shouted, in as much warning as surprise.

The fairy pokemon looked down at him. The black lines around her eyes were sleek and crisp. Her features were sharper and longer from a smoothness only explained by maturity. She was older than when they first met although not much bigger. Many a doll could have replaced her, just not the object in her hands. She held a large silver feather against her chest and it was almost as long as she was.

John recognized it as a _Silver Wing_ , but this one was more platinum than silver. Its edges were as sharp as any blade and the tip curled with just enough whimsy to make it the stuffing of dreams. Celebi clutched it tightly to her chest when she saw the Champion and its wispy threads covered her arms like a shawl. The feather offered a special kind of warmth for her that the gastly wanted for themselves. With the feather's keeper distracted, one of the gastly threw out a _shadow ball_ so big it was like throwing a doppelganger _._ It hit Celebi head on and she cried out in fear. The other ghosts closed in, freezing her in their smoke.

"Hang on, Celebi!" John cried as the pixie swirled in pain within the cloud, unable to find her way out. "I'm coming!"

He threw up both hands and two streams of energy streaked out, hot and red as fire. Marco and Athena materialized in matching calls. They swooped upward and slashed through two of the gastly with the tips of their wings. The ghosts' smoky bodies ripped apart, forcing them away from Celebi. The fairy pokemon wavered in the air like a drunken sailor on a swaying dock, her strength sucked out of her tiny body. It made the feather in her hands as heavy as a pile of bricks.

It was the moment the haunter in the corner was waiting for.

He lunged from the shadows with both clawed hands outstretched and snatched the feather from her grasp. Celebi jerked harshly in recoil but managed to snag the tip of the _Wing_ before it passed. She pulled back and forced the ghost to a stop. His airy body wasn't used to such physical effort, but his hunts often incurred resistance. Haunter grabbed his end of the feather with both hands and waved the relic back and forth in an attempt to fling Celebi from it. She closed her eyes and held on tighter.

Below, John glanced around the base of the tower for anything that could help him reach Celebi and Haunter. There weren't any stairwells but there was a broken ladder that led up to the next tier across the way. He dashed across the garden and climbed the rungs. He made it to the rim of the platform before the old wood shattered underneath his weight. The Champion fell and landed on his back in a shower of wood so old that it turned to dust when it clattered over him. He coughed breath back into his lungs and looked up through the empty center of the tower.

Marco and Athena worked in short dives and tight circles to fend off the reforming gastly, but their wings weren't meant to catch smoke. The ghosts were older and more powerful than John realized, probably because they have been feeding off of the mystical energy of the tower for decades. They reformed quickly and with a vengeance. The two pidgeotto wouldn't be able to aid Celebi in her struggle while keeping them at bay. John grunted, rolled back onto his feet, and took to the wall by the vines. He climbed up through the ladder opening, shimmed his way along the platform, and by passed the next ladder completely. He went straight to the wall and made it to the next level before a flutter of light above caught his eye.

Celebi refused to let go of the feather and Haunter had run out of patience. He spun with all of his might and stopped so abruptly that the smooth threads of the feather slipped out of Celebi's grasp. She flew out of the spotlight and tumbled to a stop in the air several feet away. A quick shake of the head rid her of the dizziness but it was already too late.

Her token was lost.

Haunter held his prize with one hand and read its energy with the other, staring into it with the intensity of a glowing crystal ball. Celebi puffed out her chest and charged, passing straight through the ghost. She crash landed on the narrow planks of the third floor platform, unable to rise. Haunters were denser than gastly. Their physical bodies had more substance to them which meant passing through them caused more of an effect, especially for her type. Haunter had sucked away the last of her resistance without lifting a finger.

John cursed into the next net of vines. Celebi may have grown in body but she still knew nothing of the ways of battle. Luckily, a Champion had plenty of experience.

"Stay there, Celebi. I'm coming," John shouted as he pulled himself up onto the third level platform. He kept one hand on the wall as the broken planks groaned and creaked under his weight.

Marco and Athena dove by, dragging wisps of the undead on their wings. Their powerful _gusts_ were more than strong enough to change the tide of battle, but John couldn't execute an attack order. It might just blow the tower walls apart if the two pidgeotto combined their strength. He might also lose his footing, and at this height, it would kill him no matter which way he landed. Celebi might also get caught within the draft.

John couldn't blame the phantom pokemon for their behavior. He was raised by a Ranger and knew they weren't doing anything evil. They were just pokemon being pokemon no matter how unsettling their nature, and if his party couldn't stop them, it was his responsibility to step in. The Champion shimmed to a wider portion of plank, measured the distance between him and the other side where Celebi had landed, and pressed as far back into the wall as he could.

Haunter hovered in the center of the spotlight on the same level. Unafraid of the light with the _Wing_ in his hands, he turned his back on the Champion. Humans couldn't fly and therefore posed no threat. Neither did annoying little fairies. Haunter looked to Celebi and opened a sharp toothed smile. She lay there on the dark wood, exhausted and shivering from the lingering chill.

Stealing her would be easier than the feather. . .

Outside of the tower, Liam grabbed Marcus by the arm. The fighter was wedged between two tree trunks at the edge of the clearing and couldn't get out. Both trainers cursed heavily until the forest seemed to sigh and the fighter came free. They both crumpled ungracefully to the ground. Marcus was up first. Then Liam and the ace spat leaves and dirt from his mouth. Several choice words about the fighter's uncanny proportions were to follow but the crowing of a dozen murkrow beat him to it. The black birds swarmed over the top of the broken tower in a frenzy, cawing and dropping feathers all over the place, and when the tower itself suddenly groaned with a wind that wasn't there, Marcus and Liam looked at one another.

The omens were obviously ominous, and if John was anywhere, it would be at the heart of trouble.

And the Champion intended to make some trouble of his own. He pressed his back against the tower wall for a few added centimeters. Several vines dangled around his neck, patting his shoulders in support. Nearly four stories up, with a giant gaping hole in the middle of the floor, and three feet of landing space on the other side, this jump was practically impossible.

John would have attempted it with just two.

The Champion sucked up his courage in one long breath, cleared the narrow slip of floor in two great bounds, and leapt across the hole in the floor. He flew as silently as a noctowl, gliding into the beam of light with his clothes rippling against the air. With his back to the Champion, Haunter never saw the pounce. He only saw the _Silver Wing_ leap from his hands as the human passed though him and caught the solid feather in his chest. The icy chill would have stolen John's breath away if he wasn't already holding it so tight. It wasn't so much the leap that terrified him, but the landing.

The tower wasn't meant to stand against one-man wrecking balls.

John cleared the hole and landed on the narrow stretch of platform on the other side of the tower. One of the planks snapped beneath him as he rolled to a quick stop and punched his elbow through the wall. Dust, ash, and old leaves rattled loose from their beds and floated down from above and below. The ash glittered like finely crushed minerals in the light. John would have recognized it as _roost_ ash if he wasn't already seeing stars.

Blinking them away, he pulled his arm from the hole and looked through it. Another good push and he would've fallen right through it. The platform underneath was no better. It was a miracle the floor had even held his landing at all. John sat up against the wall, closed his eyes, and took a moment to catch his breath. When his heart finally fell back into his chest, he looked down into his lap where Celebi clung onto his shirt better than a kangaskhan in its mother's belly pouch.

The raging fire in the Champion's soul warmed Celebi quickly. Her sky blue eyes opened and blinked into focus, noting how wonderfully cozy the tower had become. She raised her head and looked up into two dandelion soft eyes smiling down at her. She would have floated within those feathered seeds for hours but the sinister howl echoing within the shadows wouldn't let her. Haunter materialized in the center of the spotlight where he had disappeared. His teeth sawed together and the pointed tips of his scarecrow fingers followed. They were tense and crooked, twitching with the desire to reclaim what was rightfully his.

Celebi shivered just at the sight of him.

John dropped his smile and held the pixie against his chest with one hand. He used the other to steady himself to his feet. Several planks creaked beneath him as if they were his aching joints just as old as the tower. There was no need to rush. Haunter's body struggled to maintain its shape and form within the yellow beam now that it had been disturbed. Such strong heat and light dissipated the ghostly nature of his body upon contact, softening the hard lines of his skin with smoky entrails. It was as if his very skin burned, yet he refused to move. Haunter didn't risk the daylight just to lose what he had worked so hard to steal.

The three found themselves in a stalemate.

One push and the human would tumble down the tower with a broken neck.

One jump and the ghost would become nothing but a wisp of smoke.

Whoever struck first would be the victor but a clatter down below broke the deadlock. Marcus and Liam broke open the door, entered the tower, and appeared at the edge of the wildflower garden. They glanced up and spotted Haunter and John on the platform several tiers up. Haunter narrowed a glare at all of them. With so much life and light back in the tower, his odds of success had drastically diminished. Retreat back into the otherworldly realm was his only option. The ghost sneered and quickly melted back into the darkness. He would bide his time, regain his strength, and return for another hunt once the sun was set.

John planned to be long gone by then. Although, Celebi was willing to stick around for the fight. She floated out of John's arms and snuffed the ghost's threats with a haughty snort. At the beat of her wings, a gentle ringing filled the tower, tolling in a universal celebration of life, love, sticks, and stones. John closed his eyes and listened to the thrum of the pixie's wings. It brought back memories of a time that felt like a generation ago.

As if suddenly remembering the Champion was there, Celebi quickly whirled around with a gasp. She darted about John's persons, examining every pocket and fold to make sure everything was accounted for, Cork City sigil and all. She acted as if they had just hopped off of the stone altar back in Boulder. John didn't want to ruin the moment by telling her more than a year had passed since they last saw one another. He was just happy to know that she had come away from the event unscathed. As for him . . .

John rubbed the scars in his palms. Better not let her see those just yet.

Finding everything just as she had left it, Celebi placed both tiny hands in the center of John's chest and nodded approvingly. John meant to ask her if she was alright but before he could utter a word, Celebi gasped again. She caught sight of the _Silver Wing_ on the floor, hanging on the edge of a broken plank. It glowed against the shadows like the moon at night. The pixie dove for it as fast as her wings would allow and skimmed the spotlight. The translucent tips created a quick multicolored sparkle.

"Did you see that?" Marcus exclaimed as he gazed up through the holes at the narrow platform several stories above.

"Hell ya," Liam answered, but that wasn't all he saw. The black soot and toothpick thin walls, he didn't need to be an engineer to know the tower's infrastructure was dangerously close to collapsing. A cold chill prickled the back of his neck and it wasn't because of a ghost pokemon. Liam cupped his hands around his mouth.

"You alright up there, Johnny?" he called up.

"I'm alright!" John yelled back. He slid a little closer to the edge but quickly pulled back as Celebi floated up to eye level carrying the _Silver Wing_ by the quill. It took great effort for her to lift it. The feather seemed to catch air even when it wasn't attached to a winged pokemon. John could only imagine the power it had in full motion, not to mention energized, but it was the pixie's determination that John admired above all else. Celebi was starting to sweat but she didn't let the feather slip from her fingers. She was proud to show him the feather. It was proof of their friendship and how she had not forgotten it.

John had to admit. This _Wing_ was more beautiful than the one he used to carry. It was probably freshly plucked from its wielder. The colors silver and blue, they seemed awfully similar to the colors of a certain pokemon gym badge. Once more the impossible had become possible. Both Celebi and the feather were before him once again. Only this time, the roles felt reversed.

"How on earth did you get here?" John asked, laughing and stepping forward to receive the gift.

The sole of his foot touched the wood and a splinter suddenly popped off. From below, Liam saw the crack streak across the old rotted wood faster than the strike of a match. Everything went up in flames in an instant: John's foot went through the floor. Weakened and worn from his impact, the floorboards snapped underneath his weight. He dropped past Celebi, passing ear to ear within a hair's breadth of her as quiet and quick as a falling star. She was still smiling as he fell, unable to comprehend what had happened until it was too late.

John was falling, the feather still in her hands, and the centuries she spent trying to find him had become meaningless in a matter of seconds. For ages, she couldn't find a single trace of the Champion, and then, out of nowhere, a tiny flame had pierced the blurry barrier between dimensions. It shined, flashing with the hope of a lighthouse, guiding her to him. Celebi squeezed the feather.

If she could find him, she could save him too.

The pixie's wings suddenly accelerated, heightening their nostalgic hum to a loud rippling chime. Time bent and warped in its echo. The sound rippled reality, altering its color with blueish green waves of energy. The smooth strings of fate relaxed at the sound, slipping just far enough apart for the fairy to skate through. Celebi threw away the _Wing_ and propelled herself through the moment faster than she could handle. Instead of grabbing the Champion's outstretched hand, she slammed into his chest and the two disappeared upon contact halfway down. They vanished without a thud, bang, or burst.

Liam and Marcus continued to look up through the tower, unsure if they had blinked or not. The air was now as empty as the holes. There were no swinging vines, hovering psychics, or splattered bodies on the floor to explain the Champion's relocation. Not even a ghost pokemon.

"He fell, right?" Marcus asked, pointing at the sky where their friend was supposed to have plummeted to his death. Liam narrowed his gaze at the mystery. First, at the sky, noting where the platform had broken. Then, down at the ground where not a single body littered the floor. Silence filled the empty space. The ringing had stopped, making the tower feel and sound as hollow as it looked. Marcus turned in a tight circle of conspiracy. The sound of his feet against the ground scratched like dry autumn leaves on cement.

"Where the hell did he go?"

Liam didn't have an answer, but he did have a theory.

"That pokemon," he said, looking again at the platform where the smile of his friend had so easily slipped from view. "Did you see it?"

"Didn't I ask you that already? Yeah, I saw it, that small green little bug thing. It disappeared the same time as John." The fighter glanced around again and wiggled a finger in his ear. "It sure knew how to make a racket." He spotted the debris that had broken from the platform in the grass nearby. It consisted mostly of rotten wood and leaves. Clearly, there was no body, but it was the only evidence they had to go on. He walked over and a flash of silver caught his eye. Marcus bent down and cleared away the wood. It was so old that it broke apart in his hands before he could even toss it to the side.

"Liam," he beckoned.

The fighter picked up the abandoned _Silver Wing_ and twirled it by the quill. In the shadow of the tower, its body flashed like metal, cutting through the darkness in a color without color. Marcus held out the feather.

"Look familiar?"

Liam walked over and was almost hesitant to take it. A curious nostalgia tickled his brain, warning him that this was related to something he had lost in his _confusion_ , and if he took the offering, things would be put into motion that could not be undone.

The temptation was too great to resist.

Liam took the _Silver Wing_ , spun it once, and the feather blew away the fog in his memory better than a _gust_. A cascade of remembrance paralyzed him. He stood there and stared at the feather, eyes glowing in its ambiance. It cast a light on a dark part of his memory, a part he had spent a year trying to find.

Marcus turned away, unaware of his friend's sudden revelation. _Confusion_ could take away the facts but it couldn't change a feeling. The truth had always been there for Liam, the ace just didn't understand it. Marcus could relate even without a physic affliction. He didn't understand a lot of what happened that day in Treasure Cove when the sky burned and the earth slithered, only that it had actually happened and his spirit was the better for it. Liam's was too.

The fighter looked up into the sunlight streaking through the ceiling. It seemed dimmer now. Maybe because it had never been that bright to begin with. His eyes were the only thing that had changed. That, and the company they carried. Marco and Athena circled overhead as if manifesting their dizzying confusion of the situation. They chirped and whistled, calling for a trainer that wasn't there.

When nothing called back several minutes later and the pidgeotto became distraught, Marcus knew John was truly gone. The Champion would never abandon his pokemon. Marcus never believed the stories John told about magical relics or time warping. They were all just some convoluted fantasy made up during some drunken episode during a pokemon festival. Or at least, that's what Marcus always told himself. He couldn't acknowledge any of it, because if he did, everything he knew about the world was a lie.

Now, it just made sense.

Marcus sighed long and hard, shaking his head lightly to rid himself of the falsehood that had cost him so much more than just a narrow outlook on life.

"I should have known better," he muttered, rubbing a hand deeply into his face.

"I didn't know at all," Liam replied. "But now I do."

It may have been the magic of the feather, or the sight of a familiar object, but just about everything Liam lost in his _confusion_ had come back to him. The sight of the _Silver Wing_ had stimulated something in his brain that connected all the missing pieces of the puzzle. The ace's eyes glittered one last time before he glanced away from the _wing_ and looked at Marcus.

"Our Johnny boy was a time traveler," he explained. "It's what they do."

"What, vanish without a trace?" Marcus growled.

He turned away and worked his jaw over the statement, irritated to be so powerless against such magnificent invisible forces. If he had prepared for such an inevitability, he wouldn't have baulked so clumsily and let it happen at all. Never again would he let the impossible and unbelievable wound him so.

Liam wasn't so hard headed to think the same. There were things in this world that couldn't be explained and they had experienced one of them. John always spoke of Celebi with the utmost faith and innocence. If she was as good of a friend as he claimed her to be, she wouldn't have let her friend ride the timeline for a lifetime alone. She had come back to find him. All that was lost had been found, including Liam's memories. He regained them only to lose that which had created them. The irony was so bitter Liam's lips puckered into a frown.

Unsure of what had happened and what they were supposed to do now, Marco and Athena swooped down towards the humans still left in the tower. They each landed on the next available trainer. Athena took to Liam's upraised forearm, squawking to express the depth of her misery. Marco came in over the back of Marcus' shoulder so that his long and glorious tail didn't catch on the ground. He tottered back and forth in restless steps, punching holes in the fighter's jacket with his talons.

Marcus raised his hand and let the pidgeotto bite at his calloused fingers until the bird calmed. He then stroked Marco on the chest. His large hand was heavy and rough but that's exactly the kind of strength the bird was currently lacking. The pidgeotto quieted, listening for a whistle on the wind. Marcus couldn't find it in himself to tell the pidgeotto the truth, so he took a page out of a Polisher's book. If a stone cold killer like Vermillion could believe that John was still alive after a building collapsed on top of him, he could do the same for something like this.

"Do you think she brought him home, that fairy?" Marcus asked, remembering the quick winged pokemon and the stories he pretended not to care about.

"It's possible," Liam answered. He stroked the pidgeotto on his arm, trying to comfort her as much as himself. John's last leap through time left him incapacitated, vulnerable, and in critical condition. Liam hated to think what would happen if there wasn't another guardian angel watching over him wherever, or whenever, he landed.

"Think he'll come back?" Marcus continued, this time much more quietly, as if shielding Marco from the answer. The pidgeotto tossed his feathers and began to prune them into perfect place.

"I think so," the ace answered as he raised the _Silver Wing_ once more. It was his now. He twirled it and the feather cut through the beam of light fast enough to create a rainbow colored flash. Liam smiled.

After all, he had the perfect box to keep it in.


	61. Epilogue: 4

**Epilogue: 4**

 _Decades of Departure_

John landed flat on his back. The impact knocked the wind right out of him. His head hit the ground in the process and a star burst worthy of Ho-oh's light blinded him with pain. It was a familiar sensation, one often incurred after several rounds on the mat back in the Cork City Dojo. Was Sensei trying to teach him another lesson or had the world _sucker punched_ him in the face again?

Lately, it was hard to tell the difference.

John gasped back to life, coughing and hacking until his face turned red. Having died once already, living didn't come easy for him. John immediately sighed out whatever breath he had regained and fell unconscious, exhausted and probably concussed. He couldn't tell what came next. It could have been darkness, or maybe even light, but the two had become inseparable ever since Ho-oh blessed him in the light and fire of the _Rainbow Wing_. Awareness returned slowly. His sight even slower, and when his eyes did open again, nothing was normal.

A panorama of foreign colors and oddly framed shapes wiggled across his vision. Scents and sounds swirled in and out of one another, fooling his senses into thinking they were each another. It was a wonderful delusion but at least the grotesque visions weren't laughing _at_ him.

They were laughing with him.

John chuckled softly to himself. Scents and sensations came to him like wisps of flavored colored smoke. He raised his hand and groped for them, suddenly aware that his arm was the only part of him that could actually move. Something heavy pressed against his chest. His legs couldn't bend and his left arm was pinned to the ground. Several explanations for the immobilization came to the Champion at once:

One, he was underwater and the ocean was so rudely napping on top of him. Second, a psychic pokemon had him in its clutches and was watching him through a tinted glass wall. Or a purple coil had wrapped itself around him to keep him warm at night. It was possible he was trapped underneath the weight of a broken tower, bleeding to death on a slab of dusty cement. That last one stirred John into action, but his fragmented senses couldn't hang on to such a complicated concept like self-preservation. His body twitched in a fit of uncoordinated spasms but the pressure was relentless.

It would not move any more than he could.

And it was probably a good thing too.

John felt like his head had split apart. Any moment now his brains would come gushing out over his eyes and he'd still be chuckling to himself like an idiot, lying on his back making hand puppets in the grass, because that's what you did when you were _confused_.

You didn't make any sense.

And that in itself made perfect sense.

John closed his eyes to quiet the circus of colors filling his vision. He knew better than to try and move again. He was too tired to anyway. His soul had burned long and hard in the Forest, leaving him more exhausted than nonsensical. Bone weary fatigue dulled the mind no matter which way it spun, thus weakening the effects of the _confusion_. John gave into the exhaustion to hasten his recovery. He fell asleep and awoke to a smooth even darkness sometime later.

The inside of his eyelids, plain, black, and as boring as they were, were a welcome sight. It meant that most of his _confusion_ had passed while dreaming, running its course in harmless fantasies that were already incoherent reels of jumbled memories.

John also became of aware of the thick bed of grass cushioning his head. The long green blades tickled his arms and legs in a cool satin like blanket. He slowly grabbed at the grass, testing his muscles as much as his motor skills, and slowly pulled himself back into consciousness. His eyes opened to a shadow. It was big and heavy and quickly reminded the Champion that he couldn't move more than his arm because of it.

A few blinks cleared the Champion's vision and the looming shadow above him took on solid form. It no longer buzzed or shimmered with _confusion_ , but the shape was no less strange. It was wet, warm, and _flexible_.

But then again, arcanine tongues often were.

John defensively winked against the slobber that suddenly sprinkled his face. The canine's head was large enough to swallow a human skull, but the teeth still left in its mouth were blunt yellow pegs. A mask of white covered his face and both eyes stared down at him in a permanent squint. One shaggy paw laid across John's waist. The rest of the canine lounged out on the grass with the elegance of an oversized mop head. The arcanine would have barked in greeting but it seemed that laying in the grass playing guardian angel had already put him out of breath. He panted heavily but not painfully.

"Rolo?"

John's voice was rough and raw. He must have been talking in his dreams again. The arcanine didn't seem to mind. He couldn't hear much anyway. John attempted to sit up but his head sloshed even worse than the sea of knots in his stomach. It was a good thing he had skipped lunch.

Rolo, the arcanine, set his other paw across John's shoulder. It was a stiff motion that shoved the Champion back to the ground with no room for protest. The fire canine then laid his head across John's chest and licked his tongue across the roof of his mouth to settle his jaw. Only when the dizziness passed would he lift it again. He had strict orders to wait, watch, and keep John still and safe until the _confusion_ had completely run its course.

John didn't struggle against the pressure this time. He didn't fall asleep either. The visions were too strong. He remembered entering the Burned Forest, finding the tower, and falling from it. The _confusion_ was still pretty fresh, but now that he was aware of it and had slept most of it off, he recovered from the episode quickly. It wasn't his first time riding _this_ beast. John opened his eyes again and struggled to breath against the enormous head on his chest.

"Rolo?" he asked again, lifting his head and glancing around. "Is that really you?"

The Champion used his free arm to reach around the canine's head and grab a handful of shaggy fur. It was the color of old cedar wood struck by lightning. It smelled like campfire, trees, and smoke. Briars were tangled within. Most strands had at least one knot, but the canine was still big, beautiful, and everything John remembered him to be.

He was also fast asleep.

Rolo snored lightly, unaware that he was still on guard duty. John hadn't seen a pokemon fall asleep that fast since Mother, the mightyena, when she fell asleep in front of the fireplace one Christmas. He broke into a smile. It filled his body with a fresh spark.

"It _is_ you," John exclaimed. "It's really you!"

Rolo snorted and woke himself. He lifted his head, shook his ears, and started panting again. He looked down and was surprised to find a human underneath him. The canine removed his paw and wagged his tail in greeting. It didn't thump more than once against the ground, but old men weren't known for their enthusiasm.

John sat up and threw his arms around Rolo's neck. He laughed. He cried. He buried his face in the endless layers of fire kissed hair and nuzzled deep into the scent that made memories of summer. The Champion squeezed and scratched and petted, but when he finally pulled away the arcanine wasn't willing to let him go so easily. Rolo poked John's face with his great wet snout and kissed him, every lick redesigning his haircut. John endured the torture until slobber filled his mouth. He turned away and coughed it out.

Satisfied, Rolo resumed his casual guarding position, breathing like all old things do when they realize even the most mundane of activities require too much energy. John wiped off his face but left his hair as wild as the arcanine's. He took Rolo's head in his hands and looked into the face of the pokemon that had towered over him most of his life. Now, their eyes met on equal terms, but only in height. John could tell that Rolo was blind. There was no recognition in those eyes. No color either. The two orbs of endless innocence had long since clouded with age.

"You got old boy," John whispered, pushing away the hair that covered the canine's eyes.

Or was it John that had gotten older?

The last time they saw each other was when Aria was still alive and that was six months before he even started traveling though time. That year of his life spent fighting flaming Jewels and their unholy gods didn't just disappear with the appearance of a familiar face.

Or did it?

Celebi, the feather, the fall, and the _confusion_ , it could only mean one thing:

He had stumbled through the space time continuum again.

John quickly freed himself from the arcanine's hold and stood, leaning awkwardly as feeling returned to his feet. He glanced around, winking against the bright sunlight raining down upon him. There was no tower to shade him this time, only the skeleton of a stone temple that had risen from the earth like prehistoric bones. A crumbling stone altar had replaced the sunlight garden and there were no markers to disturb the carpet of wild grass growing as thick and as shaggy as Rolo's coat.

There was no denying the historical significance of the site or the familiarity of it. This was Celebi's clearing and it could only be found in one place in the whole entire world: the Valic Mountain Range.

John pushed his hair from his eyes and laughed. Celebi had brought him back.

But at what point in the timeline?

John looked down at Rolo. The canine continued to squint off into the distance, tongue wagging heavily. He was old, but no older than expected. He wasn't any younger either. This present moment had to be close to, if not the same, as the one just before he jumped off of the altar with Celebi. Standing here in this place made it feel like he had never left in the first place.

John couldn't believe it. He wouldn't, not without more evidence. He turned and sprinted for the wood line, kicking up pollen and petals as he went. Rolo cocked his head and Celebi sleepily poked her head out from the top of his great mane. She quickly spun into flight after the Champion, the chase now resumed with a new leader. Her wings fluttered in a symphonic giggle, tickling a voice out of the mountain as she went.

Rolo moved to follow them. He propped himself up by his front legs and struggled to bring up the rear with the others. His stiff joints popped and cracked, causing him to pause until his muscles stopped shaking, and when they did, the going was still slow. Rolo walked with a heavy limp but he was confident that his internal heat would warm out the stiffness.

Besides, it's not like he needed to go far anyway. All he needed to do was make it to the tree line and the Range would take care of the rest. . .

John broke out of the clearing and rushed headlong into the woods. Twigs snapped against jacket. Leaves twirled and flapped at his passing. Those on the ground flopped lazily onto their backs, heavy and slow compared to the Champion's flying stride. He ran as fast as he could, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything familiar, but there wasn't a landmark or trail in sight. Tree after tree whisked by and not one pointed him in the right direction. Or any direction at all. Wherever the interdimensional clearing had transported him, it wasn't the same place that he had entered.

Had the forest spit him back out on a different mountain in the range?

John slowed to gather his bearings, although his heart only seemed to quicken. He spun, looking for any sort of landmark but he had been gone too long to remember every nook and cranny of the Wicket's woods. He needed help, an arrow to point him in the right direction. John fumbled with a pokeball on his belt. His fingers were as clumsy as his mind. The time warp would take some getting used to but there was always one pokemon he could rely on to keep him on the straight and narrow.

"Charles," John shouted as the linoone materialized on the forest floor. The rushing pokemon perked eagerly. "Home!" It was a quick easy command that the linoone knew by heart. John came up with it in his youngster days before he learned how to read a map and compass.

Charles bolted into the forest and suddenly veered off to the side. He ran several feet in one direction, then the other. John watched intently, and when the linoone started to zigzag in a consistent direction, he knew they had a trail. The two rushed through the maze of trees in a well-rehearsed exchange of steps and leaps. The trail was narrow, almost invisible, but the linoone's nose was almost as good as the arcanine's that raised him.

John was in a sweat by the time the path ended. He skid to a stop in front of a wall of large boulders. They had pushed aside the trees long ago, opening the space to a patchwork of sunlight through the canopy. A single baby sugar maple kept the rocks and minerals company. It grew in front of them, following the trace of the sun along their heads and whispering secrets every time the wind passed by. The branches were spindly and thin, but crowned in the leafy emeralds of new growth. A small alcove was carved into the face of the largest boulder across from it. Colorful leaves, glittering minerals, and various acorns decorated the inside.

Aria's memorial was pristine, untainted, and exactly how he left it.

John's knees quivered and threatened to fall out from underneath him. This was the Valic Mountain Range. This was the right weather, the right season, and the right time.

He was home.

But he wasn't alone.

A hot thick breath suddenly slapped the back of the Champion's head. It displaced his shirt collar, tossing his hair with the power of an air gun. It carried with it the animosity of a grunt, causing John to flinch as if pinched. The Champion spun on his heel, stopped, and came nose to nose with a fusion of rock and steel so fierce, it was as if the Range itself had risen from the ground to stand before him.

Sebastian, the aggron, lifted out of his judgmental sniff to stand as straight as the slope of a mountain's edge. He didn't move quickly. He had no reason to. The iron body pokemon was a giant even as far as aggrons went. He stood several inches over John, easily tipping seven feet without the help of his horns. Decades of molding mountains, shouldering boulders, and pummeling ironwood trees had buffed his silver steel to a white shine. The rest of his armor was black. The original pewter gray of his species darkened under the soot of regular fire baths from Rolo. Day after day, the old language of the arcanines' blessed the aggron's metal with fire, strengthening it so that even a fighting type would break its hand against it.

Calloused in steel, Sebastian moved like a battleship, slow and heavy, but every movement was as smooth and as deadly as the lines of a marowak's skull. His metal plated jaws were born from a horror movie. Both horns were honed to even sharper points, but it was his gaze that cut the sharpest. His eyes were so blue that they glowed underneath the shadow of his helmet. His pupil was the fissure created by the seperation of continents. Born in a mountain and raised to conquer it, the iron body pokemon could have ripped John's heart out of his chest with one hand.

And he did, just not with his claws.

John sucked in his breath at the sight of the titan. He couldn't see it before, but now, after being touched by the _Rainbow Wing_ , he felt something inside of the aggron that he never knew existed. It reminded him of Naga, the great serpent that had dived so deep into the earth that it had discovered that which was ancient and forgotten. Sebastian had found something in these mountains as well, but unlike the snake, it didn't come from the deep and dark. It was bright and beautiful and laughed like the churning of a spring stream.

It was the last piece of evidence proving that the timeline had prevailed.

John laughed and threw his arms around the aggron. They didn't connect around the back, but he still squeezed as tightly as he could. Sebastian lifted his arms and looked down at the Champion, surprised that the human did not tremble at the sight of him. Then again, John was never afraid of him, even as a youngster. He was like Aria in that way. And like Aria, he was no regular human. Not anymore.

His soul was burning brighter than a sun.

Sebastian could see the tongues of fire sheathed around the Champion. Something had happened to him and it had colored his aura like a rainbow. Beautiful, but entirely unnatural for a human, the aggron suspected a bit of foul play from the forces loitering in the beyond. He looked up at the small alcove carved into the rock face that served as Aria's memorial, then beyond it at the Mountain itself. His deep icy blue eyes narrowed and the branches of the trees rustled nervously, clearing their throats in feigned innocence.

He would have to talk to them later.

Oblivious, John pulled away from the behemoth, laughing, crying, and talking all at the same time.

"I missed you, Sebastian!" he started. "You won't believe what happened. I fought, and trained, and got thrown back in time, kidnapped, locked up in a hospital, and bitten by a snake."

The aggron cocked an eyebrow.

"Lopo was there and I met tons of new pokemon, good and bad, but mostly bad. _Really_ bad. But sometimes good. There was this pit called the Cage and it was crazy, not to mention everybody in it. You would have crushed them all to bits with one _iron tail_. Oh man, could you imagine?! _Whack, ding-ding_!"

Sebastian tried to keep up but the Champion's lips were faster than a _quick attack_.

"But I fought my way out, just not by myself. I had a ton of help, from Charles, Lopo, Marco, Athena, and Saul. Oh-that's right, you haven't meet them yet, but there was also this beautiful Polisher-do you know what a Polisher is? I didn't, not at first. Vermillion's her name but not her real name. Then there was Marcus, Liam, and-."

John suddenly stopped. He was so caught up reuniting with his old friends that he had completely forgotten about the new ones. Did they all make it through the time jump? John whirled away from the aggron.

"Marcus?!" he shouted, searching the trees and rocks, anything for a trace of his comrades. "Liam!?"

The forest did not answer, but it did produce a fairy. Celebi flew into the garden, humming with her wings until she spotted the aggron and squealed in delight. Sebastian tilted his head down so that the fairy splattered across his helmet in her usual full bodied hug. Even through metal, the power of her wings found his heart. The aggron's malicious aura melted away instantly, softening his eyes from a knife edge to a horizon line. They flicked over to the side as Rolo hobbled into view, stiff and sore as always. The sparkle of interdimensional travel still shimmered on his coat.

Sebastian narrowed that same scrutinizing eye he used on the Mountain at the canine, but Rolo acknowledged nothing. He continued to squint and pant as always, using his age as a handicap to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

The bastard.

"This can't be happening," John muttered. He hurried a step or two past the fire canine but the trail was empty. No one had piggybacked the arcanine's personal teleport out of the clearing. The mystical barrier to the clearing had closed.

Maybe for good.

Rolo nudged the Champion's waistline, whining for the company of the pokemon within. John was too dazed to move but the arcanine knew how to work a pokeball.

Sebastian was the one who taught him how.

The green friend ball popped open and Lopo's paws made no sound as they pressed into the soft dirt. His tail flicked once, maybe twice, before he realized where he was and who stood in front of him. Rolo threw a paw over the houndoom's back, and although it no longer had the strength to put the hound on his back, Lopo rolled over anyway. They nuzzled, licked, and playfully chewed one another's necks and heads, mouthing affectionately in the way only canines could.

Charles dashed across the scene, cutting through the reunion with one of his own. Rolo released his captive and attempted to bark but his voice was rough and raspy. Lopo stood up and shook off the slobber. By then, the arcanine had exchanged victims. Charles squirmed under the fire canine's great heavy paw, unable to escape the unending tokens of affection.

Lopo then turned his cool jet black eyes on the aggron standing several feet away. Sebastian looked the canine over, judging the houndoom's deeds by his exploits. Nothing went overlooked. Not the scar on his neck, the smoothness of his armor, nor the gray lines around his eyes.

All good signs.

The aggron rumbled deep within the bellow of his chest. It sounded like a growl or rocks tumbling down a ravine, but Lopo knew better than to mistake the sound as a warning.

It was a purr.

He approached the titian, Sebastian dropped to the ground, and the two came horn to helmet in only the most respectable of reunions.

Celebi clapped her hands at the sight of them together and soared around the garden, spinning and twirling with laughter. She was so happy for their happiness that she couldn't help but take to the skies. So many friends here in one place, new and old alike, it was more than she could ask for.

It was also more than John could bear.

There was no whistle on the wind to greet him. No answer to his desperate call. No matter the song, the melody, chorus, or verse that passed between his lips, Marco and Athena would not answer. They were nowhere to be found. John looked down from the sky at the two empty pokeballs in his hands. The birds were released when he fell from the tower. They weren't around his waist when Celebi launched him through time so they never made the jump. They also weren't the only ones left behind. Marcus and Liam didn't take the leap either. John still saw them staring up at him from the bottom of the tower in the spotlight, but what felt like seconds for him, had been decades for them.

There was no goodbye, no explanation to his disappearance, only half a lifetime of desertion.

It may have been too many years too late but John wasn't going to make them wait another second.

He quickly snapped the pokeballs onto his belt and took off running for the trail that led down to the Wicket's log cabin. The Champion's passing pulled the gaze of every pokemon with him and Charles was the first to follow. He rushed after his trainer, zipping down the trail with rehearsed ease. Lopo flicked his tail, debated pursuit, and casually trotted after the pair. They were headed in the right direction anyway.

Sebastian sneered. He wasn't going to waste his time babysitting a couple of hatchlings when trees still needed to be herded and boulders needed to be sheered. Rolo also had his own work to do but the fire canine proved to have all of the time in the world. He slowly pressed onward after the others. Years and years of running took a toll on his bones and muscles. He couldn't sprint, run, or move quickly anymore, but that wouldn't stop him from participating all the same.

The arcanine walked by and didn't spare the aggron a glance. He simply continued to pant and shuffle, knowing full well that the iron body pokemon was watching him with growing dismay. Sebastian may have been the shepherd of the Valic Mountain Range but not even he could withstand the warmth of the arcanine's heart. His cold disinterest melted into obligation, especially when Rolo paused in a feigned episode of fatigue to get him moving again. Sebastian groaned, knowing the arcanine was taking advantage of him, and stomped along the trail to make sure the canine had something to lean against when he inevitably lost his balance.

Celebi giggled as the parade went by.

So many friends, so many connections, so many good things all in one place, she just couldn't contain herself. The pixie grabbed her feet and tumbled in the air, weightless with joy and laughter. The sight of all of her friends exactly where they were supposed to be put such a tickle in her tummy that she rolled right out of this era and disappeared with shimmer of the canopy. Ripples of teal and turquoise washed down the mountain as the pixie dove into the timeline, still unable to completely control her power.

The waves spread down the trail, faster than the parade of pokemon, and reached the tree branches shading the front porch of the Wicket log cabin home in a matter of seconds. Even in the sunlight, the leaves flashed and glowed.

The energy passed quickly, but not quickly enough to remain unseen.

"That was odd," Carol Wicket suddenly commented from her rocking chair on the porch.

"What's that?" Samuel asked from his chair beside her. He held a glass of sweet tea in his hand and continued to rock, preserving the rhythmic squeak of relaxation. Years of the casual sport kept him from spilling a drop.

"The color of the trees just now," Carol explained, glancing along the deep green horizon line high above them. "It looked . . . different."

"Might be rain," Samuel shrugged.

He had a nose for those sorts of things and the sky was partly cloudy, so Carol leaned back in her chair. She couldn't bring herself to start rocking again though. "Do you think John will get back before then?" she asked.

"Of course not," Samuel answered. He sipped his drink and lifted his lips with the satisfaction of a good whiskey. "He's too much like Aria."

Carol looked off across the yard where a small gap in the woods distinguished the start of the garden trail. Her pale watery eyes sensed rain too, just not from the sky.

"Do you think he's alright?" she asked, her voice quieter than the stillness of her chair.

"He's only been gone a few hours," Samuel explained.

"But what if he's lost?"

"He grew up in these woods. He'll be fine."

Carol pursed her lips and tossed her husband a glance. It stopped his rocking cold. Samuel quickly cleared his throat and started up again, this time, a little faster than before.

"If he's not back before dusk, I'll ask Bernard to send a search party," he said. "It'll be like old times."

Carol loosened her lips with a smile. She reached out, took Samuel's hand in hers, and the two rocked in unison, silently reminiscing of those "old times" that were too good for words. Given Sam's prediction, they watched the forest and listened for thunder in the distance. They expected to hear the slow pitter patter of rain on the canopy, but what they got was the quickening beat of four madly moving feet on the ground.

"Well, speak of the devil," Samuel mused.

So a storm was coming after all.

Charles bolted out of the woods faster than a lightning strike. He raced across the lawn all the way to the other side. John appeared after him, stopping in front of the house to bend over and catch his breath. He waved at the Wickets and said something, but between his gasping breaths, it came out as a grunting heave. Samuel raised an eyebrow.

"I think he wants to use the phone," Carol interpreted.

"You know where it is," Sam motioned with his thumb.

Carol then gasped so suddenly that it made her husband flinch. Samuel raised his other eyebrow at her but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were on the start of the Garden Trail.

John didn't just bring the rain, he brought the sun and moon with him.

Lopo trotted out of the trees without a bead of sweat on his fur. He glided along, silent and swift as a shadow. Rolo emerged after him and barked before he even recognized the blurry shapes of the Wickets. The echo scared several pidgeotto out of the barn on the other side of the house. They flew up and over the roof, darting off into the trees as Sebastian begrudgingly came into view. He stalked in on all fours and immediately started inspecting the premises to keep from greeting the others.

Carol put a hand to her mouth. She squeezed Samuel's hand again and got up from her chair. Samuel tried to get up before she could make it to the stairs alone, but his old back wouldn't do anything without a good warm up first. When the second attempt failed, he set down his drink and made it out of his seat.

"Oh, my babies!" Carol cried as she descended the steps without the help of the rail.

John had to lunge up the steps to slow the old woman before she started taking them two at a time. He escorted her the rest of the way, and by then, Rolo had finally warmed up. He jogged over and Carol hugged him around the neck, crying and laughing all at the same time. For a moment, John lost sight of her as the arcanine lowered his head over her small stooped shoulders and returned the embrace.

Lopo approached and gently nudged Carol in the back. She pulled away and started crying and laughing all over again. She grabbed the hound's head in her hands and kissed it. Sebastian snorted his amusement at the display but his smug attempt at indifference only drew the same affection upon himself. Samuel stepped out onto the lawn, walked over, and slapped the aggron on the side like an Oldsmobile, full of pride and wide smiles.

"There's the rusty old piece of iron," he laughed. "Back for a tune up?"

In front of the porch, John managed to catch his breath. He hopped up the steps, leaving his pokemon to their licorice pieces. He swung open the screen door and dodged his way through the living room to the landline hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The cord bounced wildly as he snatched up the receiver and punched in Liam's phone number. A few short seconds later, the line began to ring. It clicked and went into an automated message.

The line was disconnected.

Probably had been for years.

John hung up and dialed Marcus' number next. Another ring. Another click and the automatic voice returned. He hung before the message finished. Twice more the numbers and their backups failed. John slammed the receiver back into its holder with a _ding_. None of the numbers could get through because his contacts were as old as the generation that owned them. John looked off across the house with a sudden idea. If he wanted to reach someone from the past, he'd have to use methods even older than them to make sure his attempts went through. The Champion jumped over the back of the sofa and darted out of the house.

"Sam," he quickly called from the top of the steps. "Do you still have that transmitter at the Welcome Station?"

"You mean for pokegear?" Samuel asked. He rubbed his hand along Sebastian's fine metal and glanced off to the side, remembering the equipment his grandfather taught him how to use. "Yeah, but it's broken. Been that way for a while now. I think the rattata got to it." Despair darkened the Champion's eyes, but Samuel wasn't intent on being the bearer of bad news in the midst of such a reunion, especially when the lad seemed so intent on using it. "But I think there's still one at the Sheriff's station in town."

John brightened faster than his eyes. He jumped off of the steps, but before he could sprint down the driveway a gentle touch stopped him cold. It was soft and slow but firm, arguing no room for debate. John obediently stilled and Carol turned him so that they could look at one another face to face. She had to look up to see into his eyes. They sparkled wildly, hoping to outrace the constellations before the sun went down. She noticed that his clothes were different, but then again, if it wasn't a green trooper uniform, she wouldn't recognize it anyway.

Carol lifted her hands and John lowered his head so she could hold it between her wrinkled palms. The old woman searched his face, reading the scars he had acquired in her absence. They were deep, thick, and long, but John still managed to smile as if they were nothing more than dirt stains.

He could tell she wanted to say something, probably more than he would ever know, but Carol kept quiet. To say what she wanted would have taken more time than he had. The Champion was rushing towards something as fast as his linoone, and she knew better than to try and stop him. It reminded her of Aria, Aria's pokemon, and the times she could hardly tell the two apart.

Tears glistened in Carol's eyes again. She would say what needed to be said, but no more. Otherwise, she would never stop crying.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for bringing my boys home."

John glanced over her shoulder at the arcanine, houndoom, and aggron loitering about the yard, rediscovering old scents and sensations. They had been gone from home a long time. Too long for a family.

His family.

John smiled, gently took the old woman's hand against his face, and kissed it.

Carol laughed away the formality and quickly waved the Champion on his way before she burst into tears again. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she shooed. "Go rush off like your linoone!"

John squeezed Carol's hand, looked up at Samuel, and nodded. The old man returned the gesture with pride glimmering in his eyes.

"Go," he said. "We'll watch over your pokemon."

John swelled with new strength, nodded one last time, and took off around the house for the stable. He ducked beneath the clothes line, reached the barn in half a minute, and flung the doors open. Lularoo, the rapidash, lifted her head from the oat bin.

"Right where I left you," John grinned.

He swung open the gate, came up beside her, and slid a hand down the rapidash's neck. Her flames jumped in excitement. Lularoo shook her head and tried to look back at John for another stroke but he had already vaulted onto her back without a bit, saddle, or blanket. He leaned forward and whispered into the horse's ear.

"To town," he said. "To the sheriff!"

Lularoo didn't quite understand what was going on or what had happened, but she liked it. She felt the heat of her Champion's passion on her skin, burning as if they were her own flames. Her tail and mane flared, licking John's face in an inferno of hot red tongues, but they didn't burn him. They couldn't, not when he burned with a light even brighter than her own.

Lularoo kicked up her front legs and the urgency of their mission put her hooves to flame. She galloped out of the barn as fast as a fiery Pegasus and Lopo was the first to spot them racing down the driveway for town. Samuel and Carol applauded the sight, but the houndoom was less than amused. Such fiery passion often led the Champion into trouble, but none of the other pokemon seemed concerned. Charles dug in the flower bed, spraying dirt and roots like a _water gun_. Rolo downed half a bag of poketreats and was fixing to cough up sparks from eating them too fast.

Sebastian had seen the pair but he didn't even bother a huff. He had seen the flames, the touch of the _Rainbow Wing_ on the human's soul back in the garden. He knew John was probably headed for trouble, but the Champion was the only one who ever gave it a run for its money anymore. It was the houndoom that interested him. What would the canine do after seeing John's potential for disaster? Would he chase after him like Aria had asked him too or would he ignore the omens and leave the Champion to his Choice?

Lopo glanced away from Sebastian and looked down the mountain where the rapidash had so quickly disappeared. He would do neither.

It was about time he let his hatchlings spread their wings and leave the nest. . .

Lularoo needed no instruction as she flew down the mountain, blazing as passionately as her trainer's soul. She billowed in the wind that she created. Her light was so bright that her mantle of fire cast long shadows over the tree trunks even in the day time. John burned within the flames, barely discernable from the ribbons of color. It was the first time he ever rode the rapidash bareback and she loved every second of it.

Not even the treacherous nature of the road could dissuade her from running at full speed. The incline was steep. Erosion had carved deep gullies and ditches in the loose rocky soil, but the rapidash knew them all by heart. And even if the road had changed over the months that she was gone, nothing could dislodge the gallop of a fire horse when it burned its brightest, because at that point, their hooves barely touched the ground anyway.

John and Lularoo burst from the bottom of the mountain, crossed the highway, and stormed into the little mountain town of Boulder. Several locals perked at the thunderous clop of hooves. Some even caught a glimpse of the flaming star as it burned its way down Main Street. They hadn't seen such a sight in months. Some swore it was the ghost of Aria Wicket. Others recognized it as the Ranger's one and only heir, back from his sabbatical to cause more shenanigans. With a smile and a shake of their heads, they returned to their business, and for Boulder's one and only sheriff, that meant meeting the blazing ball of mischief head on.

Luckily, it was headed straight for him anyway.

Sheriff Cewalski Jr. crossed his arms over his chest as John reined Lularoo to a stop in front of him.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that young Johnny Hawkins come back to town?" he exclaimed. Although, truth be told, the man standing in front of him might never have passed for a boy, even as a youngster given his height.

"Just a little growth spurt," John commented as he dismounted and hopped up onto the sidewalk.

Being the one and only lawman of Boulder and its dutiful deputy before that, Sheriff Cewalski immediately noticed the marks of delinquency upon the Champion. Calloused knuckles and polished scars, freshly disheveled hair and the breathlessness of heightened excitement, the Champion had gotten into trouble more than once since he was away, but those weren't the only things Cewalski noticed. He saw the lean muscle, the exhausted smile, and a glimmer of endless hope still burning in the Champion's eyes.

"You're starting to look old," the sheriff said. "Time hasn't been good to you."

"You could say that," John smiled and the two shared a quick handshake and a back slap. "Mind if I use the transmitter?"

"Only if you let me take a look at that fine pony pokemon of yours," the sheriff answered.

With so many ranches surrounding the range, fire horse pokemon were a common love between townsfolk.

John obliged and hurried inside the sheriff's office. It was exactly as he remembered it. Two cells created the back wall with a short wooden barrier to keep the rabble out as much as in. A couple of desks flanked the sides. They were loaded with unfiled paperwork and an assortment of oddly colored knickknacks. Everything was the same. Boulder moved on Mountain time and that was slow going. John couldn't have been more thankful because the equipment he was looking for was as old as the office itself.

Pokemon Transmitters were the fax machines of pokegear. Trainers used them to call one another via radio while journeying. The technology was primitive and predated telephones. They were big, bulky, heavy pieces of equipment that were abandoned quickly with newer technology, but when hiking through dangerous uncharted territory like the Burned Forest, even Marcus agreed that they should bring one along.

After all, they were built to endure. Whether it was an _electroshock_ or a _rock throw_ , the transmitters were built to withstand anything a pokemon could throw at them. John just hoped that included the test of time. He hopped over the barricade and slid into the dispatch desk. He shuffled some loose paperwork out of the way and pulled out a dusty black box from the back. It was simply made with only one switch, four knobs, and a dial to work with.

John learned how to work the transmitter and radio during his trooper days when the occasional journeying trainer got lost in the range, but the radio only worked if the transmitter was still responsive. If it was turned off, destroyed, or left to rust in a dump after being replaced with a fancy new backpack with a built in pokedex and cellphone charger, it wouldn't work.

"Please, please, let this work," John whispered as he set the channel, turned the dial, plugged in the headphones, and unhooked the small handheld receiver. There was no point calling for Marcus. The fighter didn't believe in technology so he didn't own anything with a cord in any timeline. If anyone was going to answer, it would be Liam. The transmitter was the only way John could cut through the red tape surrounding the present day Greyblade Empire without being labeled a lunatic. Liam might have accepted him that way before, but that was back when Liam was still an ace still fresh from the underground circuit. Now, he was a regional hero and legend.

Would he even remember a single year of journeying with a random friend out of a lifetime of success?

A light on the switch board clicked on. John stared at it, unable to believe what it meant. The transmitter was still capable of receiving a signal, but he couldn't get his hopes up just yet. Somebody could have piggybacked the channel with a newer model or repurposed the old transmitter to something else that could receive a signal, but not return it.

John took several deep breaths and opened the line.

It crackled with a series of soft rhythmic ticks. The pattern repeated itself, ringing somewhere between a dial tone and a phone line, waiting for a response. _Tick-Tick_. . . _Tick-tick_ it went _._ John held his breath, listening as the line rang . . . and rang . . . and rang. Several minutes passed and John leaned a little deeper into the desk, the weight of his suspicions settling his forehead on the table. The line continued to crackle in soft static: _tick-tick_ . . . _tick-tick_ . . . _tick-tick_. He waited several more minutes. _Tick-Tick_. . . _Tick-Tick._

It sounded like the hands of a clock.

 _Tick-Tick._

John rubbed a hand across his face.

What on earth was he thinking?

 _Tick-tick_.

There was no way Liam would keep something like a pokemon transmitter on him now that he was a billionaire playboy philanthropist pokemon pioneer.

 _Tick-tick_.

Maybe he really was as crazy as everybody said.

 _"_ _Hello?"_

The spurt of static that joined the connection broke the silence so loudly that John flinched and dropped the handheld. It banged loudly against the table and fell off the edge. John pulled it up again by the cord but knocked over a stack of file folders in the process. He scrambled to catch them but several documents slid through and rustled across the floor.

 _"_ _Hello?"_ the voice called again, this time with more irritation than curiosity.

John quickly abandoned the effort and clutched the handheld with both hands before the person hung up.

"Yes! I uh-um," John stuttered, forgetting his formal code training now that there was a real person on the line. He accidentally released the button because of the sweat on his hands.

 _"_ _Hello, is somebody there?"_ the voice asked again.

John pressed the button again, opened his mouth, and said nothing. No words, no stories, grunts, or greetings came out. He couldn't find the words to speak because he didn't know what to say. The voice on the other line wasn't Liam's. It was a woman's, robust and richly accented with the tongue of a colorful and coastal nation. It was not the voice of anyone he knew. John released the button to mute his connection and chuckled despite himself. The person on the other line wasn't the one he was looking for, but he knew the celebrity ace would have liked the fact that it was a woman.

 _"_ _I know you're there. I can hear the static,"_ she said again _. "Is this supposed to be a prank, because if it is, don't think I won't find your ass and kick it!"_

"No!" John quickly replied, amused as he was intimidated. He didn't want to come off as rude when he was the one who had desperately tried to connect the line. "No, it's not a prank," he started again. "But I-,"John hung his head and sighed. He was still as terrible with woman as ever. What did he do now?

Life Lesson#18: an honest living is the right kind of living.

"I-I'm sorry," John began to say, smoothing out his words the more he talked. "I thought this channel belonged to someone else. I'm sorry for wasting your time. I didn't mean to bother you."

 _"_ _. . . Oh,"_ the woman answered. Static filled the line for several seconds. _". . . Who're you looking for?"_

John stared at the small little yellow light on the switch board that indicated the line was still connected. It glowed like candle light in the dusty office, reminding him that someone was listening on the other end, waiting for whatever it is he had to say. The woman could be across the street in a treehouse, a hundred leagues away on an island, or even in a small little outpost on the far corner of the world like himself, but under that little glow, distance didn't matter. There was only the voice, listening just as intently as him.

John smiled. He always liked that part about the radio, but to answer the woman's question with the name of the most famous man in the region would make him sound like a liar. Nobody and everybody, knew Liam Valenis. John ran his thumb over the handheld. Liam always said he made for a terrible liar.

The Champion scratched his head and leaned up to his elbows in the desk.

'It's a . . . The name is . . .ah-someone, someone by the name of Angel," John finally managed, both the truth and not the whole truth at the same time. "I'm looking for Angel."

He released the line and turned his head to the side as if it would help him gauge the woman's response, but she didn't say anything. Static buzzed on the line, and for a moment, John thought she disconnected it until the little yellow glow reminded him otherwise. Her receiver clicked several times where she opened her connection and muted it again, unable to find a response. She probably thought he was some grunt looking for a drug dealer or gang member or something else nefarious. The woman opened the line again, but this time, held it open.

 _"_ _. . . That's . . . That's my name,"_ she said, her voice softening with romanticized perplexity. _"Or-that's . . . that's what my grandfather calls me."_

John opened his mouth again and closed it without a sound. Luckily, the other side clicked in again for him.

 _"_ _Who is this?"_

John quickly pressed the button. Truth was working so he'd stick with it.

"Johnny _-ah_ , John. This is John Hawkins."

 _"_ _. . . Stand by,"_ the woman said, switching from her casual speech to formal radio chatter.

It put John in a sweat. Why the pause? Why the change? Had his name actually meant something to her or was she running some sort of background check to send the police after him?

John glanced around the station. Sheriff Cewalski was still outside with Lularoo, struggling to keep her from wandering around without anything to hang onto. All of the other deputies were out on the road but their newer channels were quiet. So were the forestry troopers up on the mountain who often piggybacked their calls. Luckily, the pokemon transmitter couldn't be shared.

John didn't know what he would say if Trooper Bernard and little Hardy, the houndoom, had overheard his humiliation. John sat back in the chair, exhausted and confused. He waited a while but the line remained quiet. Not a _Tick-Tick_ broke the silence. He tapped his finger on the handheld then scooted closer to the desk and leaned heavily into it, as if closing the distance between him and the radio closed the distance between him and the other person on the line.

Eventually, the other end clicked in again. There was no voice at first, and when it came on, it sounded far away as if the button was being accidentally pressed.

 _"_ _Pappie! Over here."_ It was the woman's voice again. Her accent was coming on strong now that she was talking to someone else physically nearby. _"No, I'll come to you. Sit down."_ She then said something that must have been in a different language because John didn't understand it. _"Yes, right there."_

John quickly cleared his throat when she came on again, this time, on purpose.

 _"_ _Hey, John?"_ she called.

Something fluttered in the Champion's stomach when he heard his name.

"Go ahead," he answered and immediately cursed himself for the formality. His days of dispatching for the Sheriff's office had resurfaced in his anticipation despite the woman's return to casual speech.

 _"_ _You've got the right number. Hold on,"_ the woman said.

Somehow, John could tell she was smiling. The channel clicked on accident again as the radio on the other side changed hands. John's heart thumped in his chest as fast as his rapidash's hooves down the mountain. That little glowing light on the switch board might as well have been the one and only sun in the universe. There was silence on the line. The open channel itself shared his suspense.

 _"_ _This is Angel,"_ a voice suddenly crackled over the radio.

It was different than the woman's. It was a man's, old and raspy with time. John's hand began to tremble. He squeezed the handheld to stop it, but now his voice was beginning to shake.

"Angel?" he quietly whispered.

" _Hiya, Champ_ ," the old man replied, finding youth even in the grace of age, " _I was starting to think you stood me up_."

The voice may have cackled the words but John could still hear the ace within. Liam Valenis had waited for him. All this time, he waited, respecting every fear and caution the Champion ever had about time travel by not reaching out to him. Waiting for that moment in time when John finally finished falling through the tower.

John bit his lip and pressed the back of his hand into his forehead. He didn't want to let the little yellow light see him cry. The voice that was Liam Valenis, although aged like fine wine, didn't miss a beat.

 _"_ _You still remember me don't ya?"_ he asked.

John squeezed the handheld and sat a little straighter. He laughed to compose himself, brought the receiver to his lips, and smiled.

"How could I ever forget?"

 **THE END**


End file.
